


Dogwood Winter

by wtflommy



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Arya's List, Bloodlust, Canon-Typical Violence, Cover Art, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Smut, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, My First AO3 Post, My First Work in This Fandom, Older Arya, Post-Canon, Post-Winter, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-12
Updated: 2017-12-26
Packaged: 2018-12-26 23:49:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 64,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12069486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wtflommy/pseuds/wtflommy
Summary: Spring can be an unpredictable time of year, warm and summer-like one day, and cold and snowy the next. It’s easy to get pulled into a false sense of security that things will remain hospitable when suddenly Dogwood Winter hits and reminds you that dark times weren’t far behind.Now that winter is over, there's a list to finish off and a pack is established. In the journey, Arya contemplates the balance of a killer's desires and the need for human connection that has left her burned her whole life. Sandor continues trying to teach the wolf. [Arya x Sandor]





	1. preface

 

**preface.**

 

_Hey little creature, tell me what's on your mind,_  
_Where've you been hiding? Can I come this time?_  
_So pleased to please you, and rip that heart off your sleeve,_  
_Let me discover_  
_I got love on my fingers_  
_Lust on my tongue_  
_You say you got nothing,_  
_So come out and get some_  
_Heartache to Heartache,_  
_I'm your wolf- I'm your man_  
_I say run little monster,  
_ _Before you know who I am_

\- **[Little Monster, Royal Blood](https://open.spotify.com/user/grafxnerd/playlist/6lfy4MDQinZ3AvxbrzlH0x)**

 

—

 

Brienne slowed down, catching pace with a man she’d believed to be dead for many years now. 

“I thought you were dead,” she mused.

“Not yet—you came pretty close,” he growled. 

She sighed. “I was only trying to protect her.”

“You and me both.” They were silent for a moment.

“She’s alive—Arya,” she finally admitted. 

_That wolf-bitch._

The dog whipped around and slowed his step for just a moment, before catching pace again. “Where?”

“Winterfell,” Brienne said cooly.

“Who’s protecting her, if you’re here?" 

“The only one that needs protecting is the one that gets in her way,” she smirked. 

He had to agree with that, he thought smugly. “It won’t be me.”

Brienne regarded him as they walked towards the Dragonpits, a shadow of a grin ghosting across her face. 

The Hound returned the look before Brienne quickened her pace to the center of the group. He settled into a rhythm as they walked down the sandy path, the wight silent in the caged cart. 

—

The wights had crossed the wall not long after that meeting had taken place in the Dragonpits of Kings Landing. A lot of men died that day, and even more men—and women and children, anyone who could hold a weapon, really—had died in the coming months. Their march South was slow, but they gained numbers—thousands added—as they destroyed towns along the way towards Winterfell. Sandor and the men he traveled with had reached Winterfell just as the wights had, and he had paused briefly wondering about the Wolf Girl who had survived—lingered longer on the Little Bird—as he watched the Night King on his Ice Dragon circle the fortress from the sky. 

_Fucking hell._

The battle that day had pulled him away from Winterfell, towards the West, before he could get inside its walls to check on the Stark girls. They were dead now anyway, no chance they had survived. Arya had likely fought well, the corner of his lip had twitched upwards thinking of her spirit during their travels all those years ago. Didn’t matter now, she was dead, the Little Bird too. 

— 

A few weeks prior to the advancement of the Night King, Jon and Daenerys had arrived atop Rhaegal and Drogon. The townspeople and armies alike were both excited and frightened by the presence of the large beasts, who they kept to the godswood, to help lessen the tension in the fortress. Not that it matter, their screeches could be heard for miles, despite trying to keep them at peace. Arya had learned on their return that Jon wasn’t her brother, but her cousin, and related to the Dragon Queen, which explained why he was able to ride one of the great beasts. Given the Long Night coming, they all tried to put aside the fact that if anyone was the one true heir to the throne, it was Jon, of all people. 

Arya and her sister had grown somewhat closer after the execution of Littlefinger, but the she-wolf still hadn’t forgotten her sister’s betrayal, whether it could be helped or not. Sansa still did not trust her, and had felt it better to keep a distance between them to assess her actions objectively as the war neared. The Lady of Winterfell had been through a lot, and had grown measurably in maturity and responsibility, but was still naive to the bigger picture, which showed whenever a conversation with Arya crossed the convenient proverbial line in the sand she had made for herself.

The she-wolf’s intentions were to work alone during the coming war, protecting her family as much as she could, rather than working as part of a larger force. The air had chilled considerably shortly before the wights had arrived, dogs and dire wolves howling, the dragons screeching impatiently. She watched as Jon, Daenerys and the two dragons left to lead the armies waiting outside the gates, a pang of sadness and hope for his safety. 

When the wights had broken through Winterfell’s gates, she worked swiftly and silently to kill as many as she could with the Valyrian steel dagger given to her by Bran. There was an evil, shrieking scream from the sky, that did not sound like Rhaegal or Drogon, and she whipped her head to the sky to see a tattered dragon circling the castle. It had started not with the people of the castle, but on the godswood, icy blue fire coming from its mouth as it began to devour the town inside. Arya had rushed from the Courtyard into the Great Keep, looking for Sansa and Bran, taking the stairs four at a time, eyes wide and darting into the open, ransacked rooms. 

They were nowhere to be found.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story gets richer and deeper, I promise! I wanted to set the stage for the last 5 years before starting. Hope you'll continue reading! :)


	2. new spring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A chance encounter at a familiar place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a big believer in the emotion of music, as you'll see with the noted lyrics at the beginning of each chapter. The titles are linked to the playlist I created to get into the mindset with this story, or you can search for 'Dogwood Winter' on Spotify, you should be able to find my playlist, if you'd like to transport to my world. :)
> 
> 9.15/ updated copy to flow a bit better, no story changes.

 

**one.**

_It's murky in the meadow_  
_As we draw in the lines we threw_  
_Leveraging the ledgers_  
_Forgetting all the blood we drew_  
_But what I do remember_  
_What I do remember is you  
_ **_-_ [Fortune, William Fitzsimmons](https://open.spotify.com/user/grafxnerd/playlist/6lfy4MDQinZ3AvxbrzlH0x)**

—

He’d moved north from White Harbor with a group of fighters headed for Winterfell as the White Wolf and the Silver Queen took off on the remaining dragons. It had taken him more than a fortnight to reach the hold, more than three times as long the dragons. It was a bitter, biting trip North and many times he wondered if he shouldn’t just turn around and find the first boat to any port in Essos. The piercing image and sound of the wights he’d seen months before still seared into his mind each time he closed his eyes—he’d come very close to death once before, and he’d choose it over those creatures any day. However, he felt an attachment to go North, not just to finish the business he started by bringing the wight to the Dragonpits, but he’d hoped to confirm the Stark girls were safe. 

There was an uncomfortable sensation in his chest when he thought of them; the eldest one a true beauty who he’d heard was Lady of Winterfell. She’d been a dreamer of the fantasies of Kings, Queens, Princesses and loyal Knights—a loyal dog was all he’d been, to that cunt of a prince, but more so to the little lady. That night on the Blackwater, the fear of fire and the eventual warmth of wine had taken him to her room before he’d left to head North, stupid notions of saving her, of being her Knight in shining armor. But, alas, he was no ser, and she wanted nothing to do with him.

And the younger one—he had no clue what she had been up to all these years. He’d heard bits from Brienne during their trip back to White Harbor; the girl was a young woman now, a deft fighter, who had bested the towering woman more than once during their sparing in Winterfell. She was cool and quiet, like an assassin, what the Tarth woman described as unnerving, moving with exacting, fluid movements and lightning speed. A proud but small smile crossed his face whenever he thought of her, he knew she’d last longer than him. She was a pain in his ass when they’d traveled the Riverlands, but it was like a mirror at times the way she reminded him of himself when he was young, disconcerting and heartening all the same. He didn’t fault her for leaving him for dead, but hoped he’d get the last laugh if she saw him alive again.

Somehow, Sandor had managed to survive through the Long Night bruised, beaten and worse for wear, but still alive. It had been a long five years, but eventually the Night King was defeated. Winter had come quick, but Spring had come just as swiftly.

But he didn’t want to think about it anymore; the living got lucky. _Fucking lucky._

His horse moved lazily along the path—South along the Kingsroad, as far from the North as he could get—the brisk but warm air still welcome after all those years of biting wind. Nearly 40 years behind him, he’d had his share of adventure and misadventure alike; he was tired, and ready to drink and fuck for his remaining days. 

His eyes watered.

The skies had been smoky for months as they burned the dead wights all around Westeros. Piles of ashes littered the fields as he moved along, some still smoking. It was a bitter, foul smell that hung in the back of his throat, but not as bad as his own, he’d noticed as the winds changed direction. He had managed to make a few coins helping rebuild inns and homes along the Kingsroad as he had traveled aimlessly. There was still a need for sell-swords, and he’d probably make more money from that, but after so much fighting and killing, even he was tired of it. He leisurely plodded along, cresting a hill as he watched the sun begin to set—beautiful shades of orange, pink and red, dusted out by the smoke that filled the air. By the time the sky had turned shades of purple and grey, he came upon the Crossroads and decided to settle there for the evening.

Taking his horse, a palfrey of similar size to his old courser Stranger, to the stable, he tossed the stable boy a coin as he stomped to the ground, spooking the white and grey mare to his side. He patted the mare on the shoulder, rubbing her neck brusquely, calming her down.

With a hand stiff from holding reigns all day, he pulled open the Inn’s door and stepped inside, ducking through the doorway, his face dipping into the shadow of his hood further—it was just easier if they didn’t see his marred face. There were a few whores about, heaved up chests bruised from their trysts—lucky him to end up in such a place with a few extra coins. His eyes drug over the rest of the crowd; didn’t look like much trouble. He removed his leather gloves, dropping them on the table, and settled himself into a few mugs once he’d had his share of the watery stew and stale brown bread.

A woman made her way over to him, her blonde hair plaited into a dirty braid that draped over her shoulder, laying upon her ample bosom. Her dress was loose, the strings barely tied, allowing patrons a peak of her as she moved about the room.

_Not really my type, but what do the say about beggars?_

He placed a coin on the table for her. Sliding it into her waist belt, she sat upon his lap, ignoring his stench and ran a finger along his large arm. 

“Why so sad, Ser?” she purred to him. Her hand rose to lower his hood, yelping as he grabbed her wrist tight, pulling it down to her side. 

“Easy, woman! I'm no Ser, and you’ll see what I want you to see,” he growled at her. He dumped her off his lap unceremoniously as he stood, gulping down the last of his ale, a few drops running down his face. As he tipped his cup back, she got a glimpse of his mangled face and he caught her gasp and quickly look away.

“Come on now, wench. You’re paid for.” He trudged towards the room he had paid for, his head buzzing from the ales he’d had over the last few hours. As he left the main hall, he thought he caught a familiar pair of steel grey eyes staring back at his from under a hood in another dark corner booth. 

“She’s alive…?” he muttered under his breath as he closed the door behind the whore.

_Can’t handle your drink anymore, Clegane, you’re getting old._

_—_

She worked methodically, quietly, picking the dead off one by one—sometimes two or three—with her Valyrian steel dagger. Needle was of no help here, unfortunately. She had lost Sansa in the commotion, with no idea if her sister had made it out, no idea if Bran had made it out. Jon and Daenerys had flown in on Rhaegal and Drogon, arriving before the rest of their party, which she had learned in passing had included The Hound. The thought of a reunion with her captor turned companion twisted her stomach. She never did run into him before the wights began their attack.

When the Night King had flown in on his Ice Dragon, she knew that Winterfell was lost. Perhaps she’d see it again one day. Perhaps not. The ice of the Winter seemed to penetrate her already cool assassins’ heart.

_It’s better this way, just pull the bandage off, it’s done._

As the months—had it been years?—waned on, the wights seemed to ebb and flow through the Northern lands. She found herself pausing in her mechanical killing everytime she came across a wight whose face she recognized, but she tried to see it as giving back a face that was taken from the Many Faced Gods. The days of the living were coming to an end, it felt like at times— _Valar Morghulis_ , she reminded herself.

Even Arya, all spit, fire and spirit, who perversely thrived on killing, had had enough. It’d be another year before the Wildfire was found, and still another few months before Winter ended.

Now, however, it was Spring. It took five years for the Spring to come, she _felt_ like she’d aged at least twenty and with limited rations and the dire circumstances, looked like she’d aged at least ten. She’d grown in height by another few inches since the start of the War, and her chest had gotten a bit bigger as she became a woman—still quiet small and boyish like the rest of her figure—not that it went noticed anyway since she bound her chest and wore her clothes loose so as to not draw attention to herself. Her dark brown hair had grown longer, but she kept it pinned up under itself with a shard of Dragonglass—just in case—shorter pieces falling out around her ears and neckline, giving her the look of a shaggy boy. 

She’d found another horse, a white and grey mare with long legs and bright brown eyes that she’d named Meria after her beloved direwolf. No way in Seven Hells was she going to see her pack mate again. Her thoughts drifted to a former life.

_Cersei Lannister._

_Ilyn Payne._

_Gregor Clegane._

She thought about the Red Woman and the Brotherhood without Banners, the likelihood of seeing the former who had escaped East before Winter got too bad, and the later she’d learned were fighting for the North—were they on her list anymore? Now that the Long Night was over, she’d had to find purpose again and avenge those who had been wronged. During the long Winter she’d come across Gendry at a campsite, and joined him and his group. She’d always liked Gendry, he’d helped her when Hot Pie first threatened her, kept her secret on the road to the wall, said she’d be his lady… and then the Red Woman had taken him away when the Brotherhood sold him off. And yet, when she came upon him all these years later, it was different. Then 20, it was complicated — she was beyond happy to see him, and he her, but those confused musings of a child when she had laid eyes on his dirty, sweaty muscles years ago were now coming back to her, as a woman. 

_“You wouldn’t be my family, you’d be my lady.”_

They’d kept each other warm that night, and every night for the next several months. She’d thought she would finally be his lady—as much of a lady as she would ever be—she should have fucking known better. They made camp one night up on an outcropping of rocks just above the Last River, south of Last Hearth, and had thought they’d be safe with a sentry changing every few hours, until a wall of wights approached, unnoticed in the falling snow, unheard in the relentless winds. It was a brutal night, men screaming in agony as they lost their lives, fighting in the darkness against the Night. She was sure she’d lose her’s too, until she’d heard a howling screech in the distance—a dragon? Her grey eyes had darted around the chaos, looking for Gendry. If they didn’t get out of there now, they’d all be ash in moments. She had yelled out for him, hoarse and panicked, and thought she’d heard him as she retreated down the mountain’s rocky side. Ducking past a large boulder, she felt the heat of dragon’s fire whip past her, the shrieking of wights.

And then there was nothing but silence and ash. 

She sighed into the cool afternoon air, patted Meria’s neck gently in encouragement and rode West, the setting sun in her eyes.

It wasn’t long until she came upon the Inn at the Crossroads and welcomed it enthusiastically. She knew the number of inns between the Crossroads and Riverrun was limited and she definitely needed a bath, and a good meal. As she dismounted her horse in the stable, she wondered if Hot Pie had made it through the Winter.

_‘I’m like you, Arry. I’m a survivor.’_

Her first bite of food confirmed he was definitely not still at the Crossroads, so she sucked back half the mug of ale in front of her in commemoration of her lost friend. And to wash the taste of stale bread out of her mouth. She’d chosen a seat towards the back, where the stairs to the rooms was. The Inn seemed to survive the Winter fairly well, and had a number of patrons and whores milling about. She felt a pang for Gendry as she thought of his touch and the warmth he had brought her, and wiped the frothy ale from her lip.

_It’s Spring now, don’t need to be warm anymore._

A man, towering and broad-shouldered, came through the door, hood pulled low over his face— _we’ve all got something to hide_ —and took a seat on the opposite side of the establishment. The patrons had stolen a glance and mumbled when he came in, but had turned back to their mugs and whores in stride. She watched the man, hunched in his seat trying to seem smaller but still just as prodigious as when he stood, remove his gloves and begin to sloppily eat his meal, hood still covering his face in the shadows of the dimly lit room. He drank with vigor, gulping down the ales as fast as the innkeeper could put them in front of him.

She watched as the wench slunk towards him and perched upon his lap, watched as she was swatted away for trying to remove his hood, watched as he stood, dumping her off his lap. He tilted his head back to finish the last of his ale and saw the wench flinch as she too got a small glimpse of his face. She’d know those scars from anywhere, she’d stared at them for months on her journey home after Robb and her mother were killed some 8 years ago.

_The Hound._

He started moving towards her, obviously taking the woman to a room. She couldn’t pull her eyes off him, trying to catch glimpses to confirm it was truly him. Her steely eyes followed him from under her hood, she didn’t think he’d see her in this dark corner, but just as he was about to turn the corner, his brown eyes met her’s briefly and a mix of recognition, guilt and confusion flashed before he was gone.

“He’s alive…?” she muttered into her mug as she quickly pulled it to her mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Consider sharing your thoughts on the story so far, I would very much appreciate it! Thanks for reading!


	3. a pack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An old dog and a feisty wolf become a pack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a big believer in the emotion of music, as you'll see with the noted lyrics at the beginning of each chapter. The titles are linked to the playlist I created to get into the mindset with this story, or you can search for 'Dogwood Winter' on Spotify, you should be able to find my playlist, if you'd like to transport to my world. :)

**two.**

_I'm trying, but I'm graceless_  
_Don't have the sunny side to face this_  
_I am invisible and weightless_  
_You can't imagine how I hate this_  
_Graceless_  
_I'm trying, but I've gone_  
_Through the glass again_  
_Just come and find me_  
_God loves everybody, don't remind me_  
_I took the medicine when I went missing_  
_Just let me hear your voice, just let me listen_  
**[\- Graceless, The National](https://open.spotify.com/user/grafxnerd/playlist/6lfy4MDQinZ3AvxbrzlH0x) **

—

She was still under him as he moved, rough and fast, the bed creaking under his weight, her bones creaking under his weight. She looked towards the small fire in the corner with hooded eyes. Wasn't like she was a perfumed whore from Kings Landing, he didn't expect a show when he took his hood off, didn't expect to ever fuck with real affection and interest, not with a face like his.

He grunted his seed into her, breathing heavily above her, large arms still covered by his tunic for he never undressed for the whores—what was the point? He got off her, tying his trousers up and tipping his head to the door, signaling her to leave.

"Bring a fresh basin of warm water and an ale." She nodded and ducked out.

Sandor stared at the fire, remembering what he'd seen in it with the Brotherhood at the home of the farmer and his daughter before the Night King arrived, before he had even gone north of the Wall. Despite his post-coital warmth, belly of ale and proximity to the fire, he felt a shiver run down his back. His bones creaked as he sat on the edge of the bed, pulling his boots off along with his tunic, rubbing the back of his neck where the muscles had tightened.

The room wasn't much bigger than two beds' width with the only light coming from the small, poorly made hearth against the wall where one small window overlooked the stables. It smelled like horse shit and smoke, but at least it was a bed and there was a bit of hot water to make it worth his coin. His sword and belt sat in a corner next to the door, with a small table next to that, nicked and pitted from years of use and a small piece of metal above it where one could just barely make themselves out. He felt cramped in the space, but oddly comforted by its smallness as well. He chewed on his lower lip. Smallness…

_"Go on, she'll help you. You won't last a day out there."_

_"I'll last longer than you."_

He had begged her to kill him that day, vulnerable, almost weeping. She'd just stared at him apathetically—no pity, no happiness, no mercy in her eyes—before bending to take his gold and turn her back.

"Kill me!" he had roared after her, echoing in the hills, as he watched her back disappear over the craggy ridge.

It was the last he'd thought he'd see of her. No, it  _was_  the last he would see of her, he chided to himself. A pair of eyes didn't mean a thing. Relief had washed over him when the Tarth woman had told him of the Wolf Girl's fate on the way to the Dragonpits years ago, but he knew he'd never see her or the Little Bird again. Winter had been long and what did Beric always say? The night is dark and full of terrors.

The wench rapped on the door twice, pulling him from his reverie and after a grunt from him, entered to place a hot basin of water and a mug of ale on the table, sliding the coin off it and slipping out. The bed creaked as he hefted himself to his feet and over to the table. Taking a deep drink from the mug, he regarded himself in the polished metal hanging from the wall, the countless scars along his chest, stomach and arms, not to mention his face. He'd been fortunate to not run into too much trouble since Spring came, so none of the marks were fresh, bleeding or festering. The mug hit the table with a thud and he lowered his face to the basin and splashed the steaming water up, scrubbing with his large hands. There was a small tattered cloth next to the basin, which he used to clean the sex off as well as the stench under his arms.

The bed groaned in resistance as he sat heavily, sucking back another swig of the ale, his elbows resting on his thighs and his head lowered. The longer hair that covered his scarred face fell into his eye, and he looked towards the fire, the ache of the ride hitting him. Weary, he finished off the ale and laid back in the bed, crossing his arms behind his head.

Sleep did not come quickly that night, as he lay there, the image of those steely eyes burning a hole through him.

—

A heavy bowl of porridge was set in front of her, steam rising lazily in the still inn air. She'd slept fitfully that last night, having not dreams and nightmares of Winter but memories and questions of a time before Winter came. The porridge was hearty and stuck to her ribs as she scraped the bottom of the wood bowl. She'd continue heading West from the Crossroads, towards Casterly Rock—if whispers could be trusted, Cersei and her rotted sentinel had retreated there when the dragons began circling. The Lannister woman had been betrayed by her army when the dead had gotten South of The Twins and word got back to the soldiers of what they could do.

She stepped outside, pulling her pack to her shoulder and taking in a lung full of crisp Spring air. It looked like it would be a good day, a few stray clouds in the sky and a light breeze to her face. Meria looked towards her as she rounded the corner to the stable, nickering and swishing her tail gently. The stable boy rushed up to tack up the horse, deftly cinching the saddle's straps, buckling the bridle and patting the mare on the hip before handing her over to Arya, and turning to tack up the Palfrey mare beside Meria.

Arya walked the horse out to the yard, tied her pack to the side and with her left foot in the stirrup, hoisted herself up, right leg over and into the other stirrup. The mare paced impatiently, ready to get on with their journey. She pulled on the reins, kicking lightly, leading Meria towards the crossways of Kingsroad and River Road. Meria nickered, tossing her head back and forth, something clearly bothering her.

"Easy girl," Arya cooed, pulling over to the side of the path, and swinging back off the mare. The dirt and rocks crunched under her leather boots, as she examined the buckles and straps on the horse and noticed one was twisted and poking into the mare's chest tightly. As she was fixing it, she heard another horse coming down the path towards her.

"Girl," came a low growl behind her.

"Fuck off, old man," she snapped back, buckling the strap across the mare's chest and turning around, "I'm no girl—"

Grey eyes met brown eyes, widened then narrowed. They both stood in shock, having thought the other one was at the Inn, but quickly putting it aside as stupid hope in a world of new beginnings. But now, they stood before each other.

Arya regarded him, silently, eyes darting from his maimed face, to the light armor on his chest and shoulders, the long sword at his hip, the leg, now healed, that had been bloodied, broken and exposed from the fall… She didn't understand how he'd survived, and when she left him, she did what she had to at the time. But now, after the anger and immaturity of adolescence had faded, she had begun remembering him as a guardian of sorts—he'd never tried to hurt her (save a smack or two, which, as an adult she realized she probably deserved) but also had never sugar-coated the world; he'd protected her as much as he could at The Twins as well as when they ran into Brienne and Podrick. He'd lost a bit of weight and still had a thick beard of Winter, but his eyes seemed both softer and wilder than when she'd crossed the Riverlands with him. His scowl hadn't changed much though, she mused.

_Still an angry old dog._

Sandor wasn't sure what he was looking at. He'd seen the woman begin down the path and had thought it was the same one as last night, but had shook his head and was just about to head the other way when she hopped off the horse to adjust a strap. Perhaps the Gods were telling him something. When she'd turned to him, spirit and fire in both her words and eyes, he'd recognized them both as though it was 8 years ago and not much further than where they were now. However, that was all he'd recognized. The woman in front of him was much taller, a good foot taller, and her face, while still round and wide had thinned out from age and Winter, her cheekbones slightly gaunt. She'd still preferred to wear her hair short like when they had traveled together, he noticed, and had kept to a rather boyish appearance all over. She wasn't her sister, that much was for sure, but she was beautiful in her own wild and powerful way.

He had been disappointed and angry when he'd lost her, both at himself for losing to a woman and towards her that she not only left him for dead instead of ending his misery, but because she had no one to protect her then. Clearly she hadn't needed him, having hung on the words Brienne had offered all those years ago, and he was proud to see she had survived the Winter. He was so happy and relieved to see her, but didn't know how to process it beyond a gruff retort.

"Didn't think you'd have made it through that Winter, damned wolf blood or not," he spat after a beat.

"Thought you'd be bones in the ground by now, dog," she tossed back, crossing her arms.

They glared at each other stubbornly, neither refusing to yield. He barked out a laugh after another few moments of charged silence, spooking Meria.

"Seven Hells, wolf-girl—th'fuck ya doing here? I thought you'd be back in Winterfell, rebuilding."

The mare grunted as Sandor threw his leg over to dismount, lightly grasping the reins and walking towards her. As he approached, he saw her reach for the hilt of her dagger and realized just how much she'd grown, but just how much he still towered over her.

She scoffed. "Winterfell's in ruins. As far as I know, I'm the last living Stark, and I have no interest in ruling the North. Jon died in a battle with the Night King, and Sansa and Bran…"

Arya choked on the words, fingering the pointy tip of the dagger's decorative hilt, and relaxing a bit. She didn't really know what had happened to them, but rushing from Winterfell as it went up in flames some five years ago, she had just assumed the worst.

"Aye, your brother fought bravely North of the Wall before the Night came," he spoke distantly, remembering how he'd almost been responsible for Snow's death when boredom got the best of him and he started throwing rocks at wights across the refreezing ice.

She smiled fondly, "I'd no idea you were with him during that. He'd never mentioned it."

"Well, a dog's just there to obey orders, not be remembered," he smirked. "T'fuck you going then?"

"There are still a few names on my list," her cool eyes going dark as she met his stare.

"'m I still on that fucking list? You'd always save me for last, giving me that dead-eyed look before turning over to sleep. Cunt," he growled, moving for the hilt of his own sword.

She smiled cooly, "Only if you want to be."

She looked up towards the bright green trees with their little buds, full of strength and life, straining to see the sun again. She sighed.

"Despite knowing I wanted to kill you, you protected me, tried to get me to safety, to my family. Once I had left you for dead, I took your name off my list, and while in Braavos had a chance to think about balancing the scale. So, I took you off, because the scale was balanced. And I thought you were dead."

She smirked, "Cersei and your brother are still alive as far as I know though, and I'm going to Casterly Rock to cross them off."

Sandor inhaled sharply, remembering the last time he'd seen his brother in the Dragonpits—he'd threatened him then, but in the commotion of war he'd lost track of him and had assumed the best—that he was already dead. The rage of his childhood came back, his brow furrowing, the scars on the side of his face burning slightly as he tensed up, remembering the searing pain as though it was yesterday.

Arya tilted her head, and simpered. She hadn't intended to have a dog following her around.

"Do you want to come with me?" She couldn't deny it'd be safer to travel as a pack.

_A pack of my own._

"If my brother hasn't already burned, I want to be the one to light the fire," he growled, pausing to look at her once more before remounting his horse.

"Well, let's go burn him down," she smiled and remounted as well, patting Meria's neck and kicking her heels in slightly to move down the path.

Sandor kicked his horse as well, trotting up to keep pace with her as they headed West.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shall we start our journey? 
> 
> Consider sharing your thoughts on the story so far, I would very much appreciate it! Thanks for reading!


	4. rum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya and Sandor reflect on their time apart before succumbing to a warm drink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a big believer in the emotion of music, as you'll see with the noted lyrics at the beginning of each chapter. The titles are linked to the playlist I created to get into the mindset with this story, or you can search for 'Dogwood Winter' on Spotify, you should be able to find my playlist, if you'd like to transport to my world. :)

 

**three.**

_So sing to the seven seas_  
_All of the oceans far between_  
_Carry us oh carry us away_  
_Ever wandering ere by night_  
_Ever wandering by day_  
_And I've been chasing my tail alright_  
_Chasing my time away  
_**[\- Carry Me Away, King Charles](https://open.spotify.com/user/grafxnerd/playlist/6lfy4MDQinZ3AvxbrzlH0x)**

—

They continued in silence for some time, winding through the hills towards the Trident. The sun was at their back, warming them in the crisp air of early morning. Smoke rose lazily from the burning piles of wights dotting the lowlands, scattered between a few snow drifts in the frozen hillside. Spring tried mightily to return.

If Arya was being honest with herself, she had no idea why this had happened. What sort of fate would it be that the man who had drug her across the Riverlands for ransom was now riding just behind her in those same lands?

_"You think you're on your own…"_

At the time, she had been frustrated that he wouldn't take care of his wound, barking at her like a feral dog as she'd picked up a stick from the fire to cauterize it. But in his ranting he'd calmed down into the story of his brother, pausing in child-like resentment over the misunderstanding that had shaped his world view and how others viewed him. When he'd looked at her after reciting his pain, she saw a sadness in his eyes that betrayed him. He had no family, no one at all. He had tried to offer himself as family to her.

She watched her breath in front of her, tiny clouds that faded behind her as they rode. Reaching for her wineskin, she pulled the cap off with her teeth and took a swig of water before returning it to her hip, catching the Hound's gaze as he rode along just behind her. For a brief moment, it was difficult for either of them to pull their eyes from the other, both searching for the right words to move forward, but she drew her curtain, hiding herself, and pulled her eyes from his, turning back towards the flattening land in front of her.

_"Maybe it is the Seven. Maybe it's the Old Gods. Or maybe it's the Lord of Light. Or maybe they're all the same fucking thing. I don't know. What matters, I believe, is that there's something greater than us. Whatever it is, it's got plans for Sandor Clegane," Brother Ray had nodded knowingly towards him._

_"You didn't know me back in my time. You don't know the things I've done."_

_"I've heard stories…"_

_"If the Gods are real, why haven't they punished me?"_

_"They have."_

He had sat on a log, away from the rest of the group for a while that evening years ago, considering his place in life. When the young Stark girl had left him for dead, he'd come to terms with his life, that he couldn't change anything he had done in the past. But now, a part of Ray's encampment, he was ashamed, knowing he could have done the right thing a long time ago. Perhaps it was forgiveness from the Gods he was looking for; perhaps it was just a purpose he needed.

When he'd come upon their mutilated bodies the next afternoon, laid eyes on Ray's lifeless body hanging from the tower, he thought he understood what the Gods had in store for him. He wanted to avenge the lives of these people, who'd sought redemption and rebirth only to be cut down by soulless bandits.

"Oy."

He was pulled from his thoughts, and looked over at the young woman who had slowed down to ride beside him, a perplexed look crossed his face.

"I said, we should stop and water the horses, it'll be awhile before we come to water again."

Her placid eyes met his; they hadn't spoken to each other in hours, just slowly plodding along. It was a welcome break from the quiet, he had to admit, even if he had enjoyed the silence.

"Aye."

They pulled their horses off the path and gingerly made their way down the sodden grass towards the Trident. Arya swung from her horse in a fluid motion, boots squelching into the mud beneath her feet. She pulled the horse towards the water and let go of the reins, remaining on the muddy beach. Sandor followed suit.

"Why are you here?" Arya asked, kneeling down to refill her wineskin. She was different, he noted. There was an air to her that was menacing, primal, measured—it turned his skin to goose flesh.

"I'm not sure. Ever since Winter ended, I haven't been fucking sure about anything." He watched her fill her wineskin and as she rose, he turned his gaze to the Trident and the shores across from them.

"I mean, why aren't you dead?"

He scoffed, "That desperate to get rid of me, are ya?" He tipped back his own wine skin, emptying it down his throat before walking out into the water to refill it.

"When you left me for dead, I thought that was it. Next I know, I'm waking up to some ugly fucker staring at me, surrounded by his followers. Spent a good few months with them before they were cut down by some bandits."

Digging in his pack, he pulled out a hunk of bread and tugged on the reins to get his horse into the grass. Arya clicked her tongue and Meria followed suit. Sandor chewed on the bread, mindlessly, contemplating the balancing of scales.

"They were good people, killed for no reason. I had killed good people for no reason, too. I was no better than those men. I never had to follow my orders, and it took me too long to figure that out. Daft man, I am," he looked down, ashamed, and sighed. Desperate to change the topic, he turned to her.

"What about you?"

She smiled, looking off to the distance, eyes growing dark, "It's a long story."

He glared, "Give me the short version then."

Running her thumb over the hilt of her sword, she pointed her head towards the road and they grabbed their respective horses and walked towards it. They walked next to each other, with their horses flanking them, gravel crunching under their boots and hooves. She thought it odd to look at the Hound now, from a different perspective, both in maturity and height—she barely reached his shoulder, he still towered over her.

"After I left you, I sought passage to Braavos and trained to be a Faceless Man, where I killed Meryn Trant. I found my way back to Westeros after a few years, eliminated the Frey family and was on the way to Cersei when I heard Jon was back in Winterfell. Of course, when I got there he wasn't; I killed Littlefinger and, well, the rest is history, under a blanket of snow."

"Quite the journey for the little lady," he smirked, looking down at her out of the corner of his eye.

She looked distantly, seeing the blood on the stone floors of that Braavosi brothel, The Twins' dining hall and Winterfell's Great Hall cloud her vision. There was something intensely satisfying to bringing someone to justice, especially when they weren't expecting it—that was her favorite part, the surprise.

"I'm no lady," she muttered, eyes dark with bloodlust.

—

As the sun began to lower, they found a secluded clearing in the woods about half a mile off the main road to make camp for the night. A small stream ran past it, offering a place for both refreshment and cleansing. The sun was hanging low in the sky, cascading through the partially leaved trees in smoky yellow streaks.

Dismounting their steeds, they tied them to a tree and seemed to slip into old patterns—she began collecting fire wood and he'd gone off to find game—it disquieted her. Why was it so easy, yet so difficult, with him? They sat in silence, skinning the rabbits as the fire crackled between them.

"Where's that little stick of yours?" Sandor asked, breaking the silence that was becoming familiar.

"Needle is long lost in the rubble of Winterfell, sadly," she said distantly, thinking of her brother and the day he gave it to her.

_Stick 'em with the pointy end._

"Needle," he chuckled to himself. She paid him no mind.

He looked over at the small sword and two daggers lying next to her, and the third in her hand as she sliced into the rabbit's skin. The woman was a killing machine, it seemed. One of the daggers on the ground was just like the one she was currently using, crudely made Valyrian steel, no adornment but still clearly from a high-born home; the other decorative, with a wave to its shape, a gold and black grip with red gems at the top that came to a sharp pointed pommel.

"You name all those as well?"

Arya sat the dagger down, impaled her rabbit and set it over the fire next to Sandor's. She looked up at him, steely eyes alive with the reflection of the fire.

"I was told only cunt's name their weapons," she smiled towards him. "Thirsty?"

"Only if you have wine," he joked.

"Something warmer," she said, tossing him a skin from her pack, pulling another for herself.

The smell was sweet and spicy, one he hadn't encountered since before the Winter, when he shared company with Thoros.

"Rum."

"Perhaps too sweet for you, but beggars can't be choosers, aye?"

He nodded and smiled into the skin as he tipped it back, the sweet liquid warming his belly. While waiting for the rabbits to be done, Arya methodically and perhaps neurotically cleaned her weapons. After a while, Sandor set the skin down and pulled his rabbit from the flames; Arya did as well. They sat in silence picking at the charred animals, neither looking at the other, just into the light of the fire.

Arya tossed the bones of her meal into the fire pit, licking the juices off her fingers and wiping her hand on the thigh of her pants. The rum was relaxing her, taking the edge off her irresolute feelings towards the dog across the fire from her. He seemed softer, she noted, but there was something beneath the surface he was hiding—he'd always been good at hiding his true feelings about most things, particularly if they were anything but complaints of circumstance. Tipping the skin back again and feeling fuzzy, she squinted at him, trying to figure him out.

"Miss this face that much, wolf-girl?"

She'd never been repulsed by the scars on his face; in fact, she'd thought them important in understanding why he was the way he was. Many nights together years ago, she would stare at them across the glowing coals of the fire as he had laid there resting, learning their lines and pits, memorizing them. He'd caught her one night, staring.

_"Thinking of ways to kill me, girl?" He'd grumbled to her, the one eye she could see glaring at her._

_She'd smiled, trying to appear calculated and menacing but still unpracticed, before turning over and resting her head on her pack._

_"Aye."_

"Are you still afraid of fire, Sandor?" she asked bluntly, meeting his gaze with a courage acquired only with the help of the sweet liquid she'd probably been drinking too much of.

She never used his name, much like he never used hers; it had always been unconscious, but thinking about it now, he figured it helped keep them removed from each other. The rum was softening his edges, and lowering her shield. Somehow her using his name made things real, connected, close. He shifted himself to put his back against a nearby tree, into the shadows a bit more moving himself away from the fire and—whether consciously or not—her.

"Don't think I'll ever like it. But it has power," he mused. "After spending a few months with the Brothers and their fire god, and seeing what those damned dragons could do… If it wasn't for fire, we'd probably all be dead fuckers, crawling around Westeros with no where to go."

She shivered and took another swig of the rum, tossing a few more sticks on the fire. It hissed, tossing little orange sparks that faded as they hit the cool air. She took another gulp and stood to ready her bed, swaying as the vertigo hit her.

"Well, if we don't keep this fire going, we might be dead fuckers anyway. Going to be cold tonight."

The Hound nodded, capping the skin of rum and shifting in the nook of the tree roots, arms crossed in front of him. Arya regarded him in astonishment as she unrolled her wool blanket from her pack.

"You're telling me you don't have a blanket?" She put her hand on her hip, bewildered.

"'m not telling you anything, just doing what I gotta do," he said, his eyes closed in a blissful buzz.

"You're going to freeze to death! It's already cold and it'll get even colder before dawn," she scoffed, tossing the blanket at him. "I'll take first watch, stay warm for a few hours."

But he had passed out. Arya rolled her eyes,  _figured he could have held is liquor a bit better than that._  She walked over and properly placed the blanket over him gently, smiling at his soft snores.

Against her better judgement, she took another swig from her skin before setting it down with her things. Her breath had started clouding in front of her as she'd moved away from the fire to check on the horses. Meria nickered gently in her sleep as Arya walked past them to the small stream's edge.

The idea that the Hound was sleeping at her camp caused her to let out an unexpected laugh. She caught herself, quieting so as to not draw attention or spook the horses and bent down to cup a handful of water into her mouth. The stream babbled gently, glistening in the waxing moon light, a sound and sight she'd truly missed during the Long Night. She closed her eyes and enjoyed the sound.

Behind closed eyes her mind drifted to memories of the Hound saving her at the Twins and how, when she'd ran from him to find her family, he hadn't turned and left in the commotion of the battle but had sought her out to keep her protected. She'd been so angry at him at the time for knocking her out but when she had seen her brother atop a horse with his direwolf's head on his shoulders, she'd hugged into the Hound's chest and felt him draw his shoulders in, protecting her.

He was right, she admitted to herself; he could have sold her, raped her, hurt her, loaned her out for a warm meal, but instead he had protected her. Sure, at first it was for the ransom he'd collect when he returned her, but when he'd learned that her mother, brother and aunt had all died, he hadn't needed to keep watch over her anymore.

_"And that's what you're doing, watching over her?"_

_"Aye, that's what I'm doing."_

When Brienne of Tarth came upon them in the hills west of the Bloody Gate, he could have easily turned her over—abandoned her—and moved on with his life. But instead, he had fought tooth and nail to keep watch over her. And how had she repaid him? Made him suffer his own demise instead of putting him out of his misery. She remembered feeling conflicted about walking away to his howling; on one hand, she was his prisoner and it felt good leaving him to rot and return to the ground where he belonged, but on the other hand he had become the only pack she had.

Cool, wet drops fell on her face pulling her from her thoughts and she opened her eyes to watch a few snowflakes fall slowly from the sky. Blinking the sleep and rum from her eyes to no avail, she walked back to the campsite. The fire had died down to embers, so she set a few sticks on it and poked it around to help it air out. The dog snored a few feet away, perfectly content against the tree and under her blanket. A shiver ran down her back and she put her palms to the fire, warming them. The snow continued to fall lazily to the ground, occasionally making it through the partially leaved trees surrounding them, and landing on her cheek.

She leaned against a tree opposite her travel companion and let her eyes lose focus in the fire. The Hound had shifted, drawing her attention; the unburnt side of his face now lit by the light of the fire. His beard was thick from winter and his hair only slightly longer; he was a gruff but handsome man, she decided with her rum-induced wisdom. He looked warm, and comfortable, and safe. She didn't need protection—she knew that—but it didn't hurt to have someone fighting on her side. Honestly, she yearned for those difficult but innocent days eight years ago when they'd squabbled over non-sense, calling each other names, fighting to survive—she supposed it was easier then, less complicated.

She didn't make it any less complicated when she took another swig of her rum and walked over to sidle up beside him, pulling the blanket over her.  _We'll be warmer this way_ , she reasoned with herself as she leaned against the large oak next to him, her knees to her chest under the blanket. Completely forgetting about watch shifts, she let the liquor take over as she closed her eyes, her last sight the warm fire in front of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Consider sharing your thoughts on the story so far, I would very much appreciate it! Thanks for reading!


	5. the field

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor sees Arya in action for the first time, Arya is overwhelmed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a big believer in the emotion of music, as you'll see with the noted lyrics at the beginning of each chapter. The titles are linked to the playlist I created to get into the mindset with this story, or you can search for 'Dogwood Winter' on Spotify, you should be able to find my playlist, if you'd like to transport to my world. :)

 

**four.**

_But I was drawn into the pack and before long_  
_They allowed me to join in and sing their song_  
_So from the cliffs and highest hill_  
_Yeah, we would gladly get our fill_  
_Howling endlessly and shrilly at the dawn_  
_And I lost the taste for judging right from wrong_  
_For my flesh had turned to fur, yeah_  
_And my thoughts, they surely were_  
_Turned to instinct and obedience to God_  
**[\- Furr, Blitzen Trapper](https://open.spotify.com/user/grafxnerd/playlist/6lfy4MDQinZ3AvxbrzlH0x) **

_—_

The rum had taken him over quickly with nothing but a scrawny rabbit in his belly. Last he remembered, the wolf-girl was berating him for something—where he slept? Something about a blanket? But he did not care, for he was warm now, his dreams taking him to faraway lands and memories. Of course, his memories weren't in faraway lands, but instead just a week's travel from where he lie.

' _Quit trying to bash my skull in and we might just make it in time for the wedding.'_

In his sleep he felt a pressure against his side and remembered holding the girl close to his chest as they escaped The Twins. It had been his luck that her family would be murdered just moments before he'd gotten his bounty, but he wouldn't abandon a child no matter how hardened he had become. He had felt her whimper into his chest as they road away, their next move unknown to him in that moment.

He protected the dream, squeezing it tightly; it felt real, like he was still protecting her to this day. With a deep inhale, he left his dream state and felt the coldness of his skin, the dampness on his hair from the night's dusting of snow. He cursed Spring; he'd always been partial to Summer, at least then you knew you'd be sweating your balls off the whole time, none of this back and forth nonsense that Spring brought.

The sound of birds chirping in the trees above him made him realize he truly wasn't dreaming anymore. Bleary from sleep and a bit too much rum, he blinked a few times, and saw the smoldering fire pit a few feet from where he leaned against the tree. Faint wisps of smoke rose from the pit, where only ash, charred wood and the remains of their dinner the night before lie. He cursed himself for not shifting to a more comfortable position, his back screaming at him for sleeping against the tree, stiff from the cold morning. He heard a quiet sigh beneath him and looked down to a damp and messy head of dark brown hair.

Arya was asleep against his chest, her soft and slow breaths clouding in the cool morning air. Somehow in the night his arm had found it's way around her shoulders and had held her close. Having been void of true human touch in far too long, he lingered in the moment, lightly squeezing the small woman against him. A woman, other than a warm feather bed perhaps, was the best thing a man could ask for on a cold morning. But under the tattered blanket, they were close and warm. He betrayed his instincts to pull away and leaned his head down to her damp hair, the smell of mallow and fennel comforting him. When was the last time a woman touched him without being paid to? Ignoring all the unanswered questions and unspoken angst that was still between them, he decided to focus on the present instead of wallowing in the past. It would have its moment, soon, but until then, he could stay warm for a moment longer.

Against his chest, she listened to his heart beat with eyes closed. It was rhythmic and comforting, a steady  _buh-da buh-da buh-da_ against her ear. She felt him pull her closer, surprised, and heard him inhale atop her head. The heart beat quickened slightly and she realized this was not a good idea. She didn't even know who this man was—not anymore. It had been almost ten years since they'd last traveled together, and she chided herself for thinking he could possibly be the exact person he was then. Even then, he had been a boar of a man, angry with the world for the cards he'd been dealt, and other than being a good sword, was not the type of person she could trust.

The last time she'd trusted someone so wholly, he'd been roasted by a gods-damned dragon, leaving her to fight by herself again, just like every other person she had cared for—her father and mother, her brothers and sister, Syrio, Yoren, Nymeria, Gendry—they were all dead. Better to shut down any notion sooner than later, she thought, and reminded herself to be more careful with the rum from now on. She had a mission to accomplish and anything else was a distraction from that task.

Under her he shifted, clearing his throat as he squeezed her once more, attempting to wake her without knowing she was already awake. With aching muscles, she sat up and looked at him guardedly behind messy hair.

"Rum," he accused, a flick of a smirk in the corner of his mouth as he offered her the blanket.

Cold fingers grabbed for the blanket, watching him as he stood and stretched the sleep out of his muscles. She clutched the blanket close, the smell of leather and damp soil—his smell—lingering in the warmth.

"Fucking Spring," he grumbled, toeing the dusting of snow that lie atop a rock. "Taking a piss."

He walked off without another word; perhaps she had been reading too much into the situation and he only saw it as a way to keep warm as well. She should have woken him up to take over for her instead, but the warmth of another human was too strong a pull to ignore, especially with the rum she had consumed.

"Fucking hell!"

Turning to where he had walked off, she saw him frantically looking around the woods, the color gone from his face, his eyes wild. Her instinct took over and she jumped to her feet, pulling one of the daggers from her bootleg and making her way towards him.

"What is it—"

"Where the fuck are the horses?!" He whipped around, eyes wide, clouds of breath coming quickly from his mouth.

The tree where they had been hitched up for the night stood bare, a worn patch on the earth the only trace that the beasts had even been there. Desperately, she looked around for tracks, hoping they'd just gotten loose and were nearby. But whatever tracks they may have left were hidden under the morning's dusting of snow, leaving Arya and Sandor stranded.

"Why didn't you wake me to take over last night?" he growled, his frustration clear as he stomped past her to grab his pack. Snarling, he whipped around, shoulders tense. "Fucking careless, same as always! Leave me to clean up the fucking messes."

Soothing angry souls was not Arya's strong suit, and she knew it was her fault the horses were stolen. Caught off guard by his sudden change in character, she stuttered, searching for words to calm him down. This was the Hound she knew, angry and ready to erupt given the chance. Regardless of whether it was her fault or not, she wasn't going to let him berate her like a child.

"Yelling at me isn't going to bring the horses back! We should have picked a less obvious spot to make camp," she growled back, the hairs on the back of her neck raising like a cornered animal.

He eyed her narrowly. "Don't try to take the blame off yourself, wolf-girl. You passed out because you can't handle your fucking liquor and now we're fucked."

She glared back, "You have two feet that still work, we're not completely fucked."

"Aye, girl, we're only half-fucked," he admonished.

Kneeling near the tree where they had slept, she put the dagger back in her bootleg and packed up her things. She made some room in her pack for the blanket that normally sat behind her saddle and hoisted it onto her shoulder as she stood. Angry with herself, and with him for his scolding, she sighed and started walking towards the road.

"Where you going, girl?" he called after her, situating his own pack on his back.

"To find our fucking horses, clearly," she called back, annoyance dripping from her words.

—

It was mid-morning before a word was said between them. Instead of following the road, Arya had led them up a low ridge where she hoped to get a better view of the lowlands to see where houses might be. It seemed foolish to assume someone would steal the horses and go to a house, but she felt in the pit of her stomach that Meria wasn't far.

Sandor slid his pack around his body to grab a hunk of bread, his last rations on hand. He was still angry about the horses, but couldn't fault the girl for her efforts in seeking them out. Chewing on a piece of bread, he watched as Arya walked along the edge of the ridge, hand over her eyes to shield the sun.

"Can't get the horses if you starve to death," he mumbled between chews of the dry bread.

"I'd hardly say half a day is considered starving to death," she returned, taking the piece of bread he was holding out for her.

He watched her tall form as she surveyed the land below them. She'd hit a growth spurt while she had been in Braavos, he thought; she was as tall as her sister the last time he saw her. Under the tattered green cloak over her shoulders he could see the remains of high-born finery, well stitched and detailed leathers that fit her proper despite their now mauled appearance.

Arya closed her eyes, feeling the breeze against her skin. Behind closed eyes, she saw a stone wall no more than three feet high, with a modest home not far from it. Looking around in this vision, she saw nothing but fields bare of any burning wights. Her gloved finger ran over the pummel of her sword as she turned to Sandor.

"There's a small house to the North that's isolated from the rest. She's there, I just know it," Arya looked at him with hope and apology in her grey eyes.

They made their way down the ridge, the snow that had fallen overnight leaving a muddy mess as the sun warmed the earth. As they got closer to River Road, the burning piles of wights increased, almost like trophies of endurance and perseverance of the living spirit. Their eyes watered in the smoke as they walked past a large burn pile. In the pile was not just wights but also the dead the living had lost, as a precaution against further attacks.

Sandor closed his eyes for a brief moment as they walked through the fields to remember the dead. Ray's actions and words had a lasting effect on him, even six years later. A decade ago he'd have killed anyone because he'd been paid to, but after almost dying himself and living through the hell of Winter, he realized the preciousness of life.

_You're getting soft, dog._

—

"Look, there!" she whispered as they crouched behind a crumbling stone wall at the property's edge.

Their horses were gated inside a small lean-to against the house, which was ironically chained and locked to prevent anyone from stealing them. Arya rolled her eyes. The timber-framed house was small, maybe two rooms at most, with smoke rising lazily from the chimney in the late afternoon air. Confident she could release the horses, Arya hopped the low wall in one swift motion and crept towards the house.

"Girl!" Sandor hissed after her, making his way over the wall with less ease than she had.

The yard was bare save for a pile of wood near the front door and piles of straw near the lean-to. As she approached the horses, she realized there were two other horses in the pen with theirs. Just as the Hound approached her, she also noticed a dark red splatter and several smears along the door of the structure. Meria nickered at her, eyes wild in stress and confusion over the day's events. Arya rubbed her on the nose, cooing to her and noticed a body behind the pile of straw.

Behind the straw lay an older man, or what one might think was an older man given his head had been bashed in to a point beyond recognition. Blood pooled around his body, glistening in the dim light and Arya went dark.

Before Sandor could grab her, she had gone around the corner to the closest window and watched the exchange of the two men inside.

"That pretty mare will fetch a few coins for sure," the first man was saying, sitting in front of the fire.

"Won't be enough t'get us to Salt Shore though," the other grumbled, sitting at the small table, cleaning his sword. She couldn't see if the first man had a weapon on him or not.

"Girl, what are you doing?" the Hound muttered her direction, from his place near the lean-to.

She ignored him, her killer instinct kicking in as she assessed her targets. Her dark eyes glanced at Sandor before she rustled her clothing to attract the attention of the men inside. His nostrils flared and his eyes widened in annoyance and anger, remembering all the times she'd gotten him into fights he didn't want to be in. It worked though, the men turned towards the window, standing and drawing their weapons. She caught a glimpse of the first man's weapon—an axe—before he walked out the door to come see what the noise was.

The man was big, not quite as big as Sandor, and seemed more annoyed than anything when he saw her. She made no attempt to hide herself, looking up at him in surprise, her tattered cloak covering her body, and her weapons.

"Ser, I'm so sorry, my leg is wounded and this was the first place I came upon," she purred to him in a sweet voice.

"We ain't got nothing for you here, girl, go die somewhere else," he spat, coming towards her with the axe pointed down at her intimidatingly.

"But ser," she looked up at him with soft eyes, innocent and needy. When he got close enough, she shot her hand out, grabbing the wood of the axe, just above the blade, pulling him towards her.

"T'fuck?!" he yelled, falling towards her. In one motion she pulled a dagger from her boot and jabbed at his gut, rolling out of his way as he crumbled to the ground.

"Ya'bitch!" He grabbed his stomach, groaning as blood soaked through his shirt.

Stumbling to his feet, he swung the axe towards her and she swept into a back bend, the blade missing her neck by inches. She pulled the other dagger from her boot and sliced into his side, causing him to shout in agony. Anger seething, he swung the axe around again, landing a hit to her jaw with the blunt edge. She fell to the ground with a groan, the coppery taste of blood filling her mouth. Licking the blood from her teeth, her eyes grew darker and she grinned maniacally at the man panting in front of her.

"The hell is going on out here?!" the other man yelled, rounding the corner to the commotion.

Sandor growled at him, pulling his sword from its sheath and meeting his first thrust with an ear-ringing clang of metal. The man was hardly a swordsman, and with a push, he knocked the man on his back and put the sword cleanly into his chest with a grunt.

He went for the other man as Arya came to her feet. The man swung his axe with a roar and the Hound met him with force, making his feet slide back in the dirt. The pummel of his sword found the man's face, breaking his nose and forcing him to his knees. His back was now to Arya as she calmly approached him, her arm going around his head and her knife slicing casually but systematically as he gasped for air, blood drowning him slowly. She held him up, his hands clawed at her arm for freedom, but she just stared into the distance, listening to the sounds as death took hold of him, her nostrils flaring to the smell of blood and sweat around her. Gazing at Sandor with black eyes, she let go of the man whose life she'd taken for the old man they'd killed.

A chill ran down Sandor's sweaty back as he stared at the woman in front of him, her quick, cool breaths clouding in front of her as the sun dipped into the trees behind her. An ominous glow surrounded her and he realized how much she had changed since he'd last seen her. She was an assassin now, capable of exacting death on her target with a blend of smooth Braavosi movements, Westerosi grit and the detachment of a Faceless Man.

Her eyes darted to the window, a finger going to her lips as she crept around the corner, her hand on the hilt of her sword. Before Sandor could round the corner, she was in the house with the sounds of a struggle ensuing. He came in to see Arya on the floor, panting, with a third man over her about to impale her with his sword. The man looked over at Sandor, surprised at the man's size, which gave Arya just enough time to kick his legs out from under him. Arya flipped herself back to her feet, kicking the man's sword away from him and in the fury of the moment, rose her sword and came down on him, slicing across his chest, his blood spraying all over her. With her dagger in hand, she knelt over him and buried it into his heart as he grunted one last time.

' _That's where the heart is.'_

He watched as she stood facing the fire, motionless and covered in blood, her face glowing in the dim room. She was a ghost in that moment, gone somewhere far away. Her jaw was quickly swelling under the blood that covered her face, her clear eyes vacant as she stared into the fire, her chest heaving with adrenaline. With brow furrowed, she turned to him as her humanity returned to the surface. The dagger and sword fell to the dirt floor with a dull thud, and she collapsed to her knees beside them, gasping.

She blinked rapidly, trying to focus on anything in front of her. Conflicting emotions coursed through her body as she watched her hands, covered in another man's blood, begin to tremble. She'd tapped back into her true essence, finding comfort in the combat that she hadn't felt since before Winter. Her relationship with death and killing had become so mechanical over the last five years of battle that she hadn't experienced the feelings that flooded her now in the wake of battle. For the first time in a long time, the primal, almost sexual feeling of taking a man's life coursed through her; a feeling like no other, she had decided long ago.

She rubbed her fingers together, the blood sticky between them.

But had she just killed men over a horse? No, she reminded herself, she had killed them for the man they had killed. She was not a merciless killer, not some sell sword who would kill anyone she came across; she had a code and a reason for her bloodlust. But lust goes beyond reason and she had killed more than she had to; she had enjoyed the skirmish past the point of necessity.

Arya shot the Hound a frantic look, the battle of right and wrong playing out in her mind and gasped for air as her chest heaved rapidly. The taste of the dead man's blood was in her mouth. Her arms felt numb, her legs felt heavy. With a large swallow, she choked back the sensation boiling to the surface. It was a weakness that betrayed her stoic nature, a risk she couldn't let Clegane see. She closed her eyes tightly, squeezing her hands into fists and felt her nails break skin.

Sandor knelt in front of her, his frenetic eyes looking her over as he held her shoulders steady.

"Seven hells, girl," he offered quietly. He felt her body tremble, feeling small and fragile under his large hands. The need to protect the young woman in front of him was overwhelming, though he knew she didn't need it—not with what he had just witnessed. But he pulled her close anyway, his large arms wrapping around her bloodied body. His hand found her hair and stroked it softly, listening as she choked out a few ragged breaths.

She looked up at him, her eyes vacant and searching for anything to grab onto. Large, calloused hands found their way to either side of her face in an attempt to calm her panic. Inside she fought with herself, part of her wanting—needing—some semblance of human connection, the other part wanting to push the stranger in front of her away, knowing he'd just meet the same fate as everyone else she had let in.

He ran his thumb along her cheek, wiping away the blood that ran towards her mouth. His intense stare caused her to look away from him as her lips trembled. The smell of blood and sweat mixed with her sweet scent of mallow and fennel, and he was overcome with a primal desire. Pulling her head back towards him gently, he softened his gaze before pressing his lips to hers so gingerly it betrayed his considerable strength.

Caught by surprise, she froze before the hunger for human touch overshadowed all else and she pressed her lips into his feverishly, eyes closing tightly as a few tears mixed with the blood on her cheeks. She fumbled to find his face with her trembling hands, touching it gingerly as his tongue darted into her mouth. He pulled her close, his large hand at the small of her back, as she sighed into his mouth. Her hand gently touched the scars on his face as she pulled away from him, her wild eyes meeting his.

"You're crying," he whispered, gently brushing away the wetness from her cheek as his brow furrowed.

"That was the first time I've killed for something other than survival in years, I- I guess I was holding more in than I thought," she laughed at herself, looking over at the dead man just feet from them.

He pulled her close to kiss her again, their lips meeting briefly before she pushed him away.

"This isn't a good idea," her eyes went dark again, but her voice betrayed her.

He furrowed his brow, annoyed at himself for thinking he was any more than a filthy dog brought into the fight, desperate to lick the wounds of his master. Resigning to her words, he stood and surveyed the damage, both to the room and his ego.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm attempting to balance their old personalities with what we've seen of them in Season 7, as well as the toll I believe the Winter has had on them. I hope both their conflicted personalities are coming across without feeling too far from the Arya and Sandor we know. 
> 
> Consider sharing your thoughts on the story so far, I would very much appreciate it! Thanks for reading!


	6. betrayal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya considers whether this is all a good idea or not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a big believer in the emotion of music, as you'll see with the noted lyrics at the beginning of each chapter. The titles are linked to the playlist I created to get into the mindset with this story, or you can search for 'Dogwood Winter' on Spotify, you should be able to find my playlist, if you'd like to transport to my world. :)

 

**five.**

_So I got edges that scratch_  
_And sometimes I don't got a filter_  
_But I'm so tired of eating_  
_All of my misspoken words_  
_I know my disposition gets confusing_  
_My disproportionate reactions fuse with my eager state_  
_That's why you wanna come out and play with me, yeah_  
_Why?_  
**[-Beggin' for Thread, Banks](https://open.spotify.com/user/grafxnerd/playlist/6lfy4MDQinZ3AvxbrzlH0x) **

—

While she had worked to clean the blood from her face, Sandor had taken the body outside with the others, checking the bandits' pockets for coins before coming back inside with their discarded packs.

Arya hissed to herself as she tried to tend to the wound on her jaw, unable to see what she was doing. Not giving her the chance to object, Sandor knelt in front of her as she sat at the small table with a basin of water and bloodied scraps of cloth. He found the least dirty one and soaked it in the basin before gently pressing it to her jaw, tender as she winced.

A charged silence fell on them as he cleaned and stitched up the wound, Arya keeping her eyes low to avoid eye contact. She'd acted like a fool with that show of emotion after the kill, she chided herself. It was a new world and she had to be a measured assassin to achieve her goals, not cry like a little girl only to be comforted by some  _man._

 _It wasn't just_ some  _man,_  she reminded herself. The Hound had kept her safe from the dangers of travel when she was a child, too rebellious and impulsive to understand its value and meaning then. And now he was trying to continue that favor, even after knowing she had left him for dead all those years ago.

"Sorry," she admitted, wondering if he even heard it as he dumped the bloody water out the window.

"I'm not," he offered. "I never said it in so many words, but I swore to myself in these very gods-forsaken lands all those years ago that I would protect you from harm, even if that harm was your own doing. Nothing has changed that, wolf-girl, not even leaving me for dead."

She looked up at him, her mouth twisted in a mix of appreciation and embarrassment.

"Take the bed by the fire, I'll sleep in the other room."

She watched his retreating form, awed at how forward and honest he had been and annoyed at how she had been incapable of returning that honesty in any sort of meaningful way. Sighing, she toed her boots off, unbelted her leather undercoat and slipped off her pants, laying them on the table. She padded across the dirt floor in her tunic, sitting on the edge of the bed and looking to the darkness that swallowed the direction he had gone. The bed was warm from its proximity to the fire and she welcomed it's softness quickly—anything to leave the present moment.

—

She'd come to him in the middle of the night like a ghost when she couldn't sleep, kneeling on the bed beside him, watching him until he had opened his eyes. Tenderly, he had placed his hand on the outside of her thigh, eyes looking at her in question, his thumb involuntarily running back and forth over her scared skin. She flinched only slightly.

"Do you know why I didn't kill you when you asked?" she offered quietly, pain across her face.

He tried to blink the sleep from his eyes to give her his full attention, surprised by her question. Silently, she crawled up to him and laid down, her head in the crook of his arm, her back against his side. Not waiting for him to answer, she continued, as he pulled the wool blanket over the both of them.

"I had lost so many people who meant something to me in such a short period of time. My father and mother, Robb, Syrio, Yoren, Gendry. Sansa was a prisoner to a monster of a family and Jon was at the Wall; I had no idea where Bran and Rickon were. And I know I was a pain in the ass but I think I was just incapable of processing the emotions I felt and the incessant bickering between us was the only thing I had left."

She was turned away from him, so he couldn't see her face and the anguish that washed across it. He pulled her closer, regardless, just listening.

"You were like a father to me, a brother—something more, I don't know—I was just a child. You were my guardian and you were leaving me, just like they all had. I was angry that you hadn't just let me burn the nasty bits from that bite, that Brienne had bested you when I know you would have been able to beat her if your shoulder hadn't been on the mend.

"I thought that if I acted like your death didn't bother me, I could move on more easily. The truth is, Sandor, it's haunted me ever since and I don't want to have to go through that again."

He felt a wetness on his arm where her cheek lay, and pulled her closer, a faint kiss on the top of her head.

"It's the past, Arya, makes no difference now."

A lump formed in her throat as he said her name—he never said her name—and she closed her eyes, sinking into his embrace with a sigh.

—

Behind tired, watery brown eyes the beast watched his surroundings carefully, ears pricked for noises, his nostrils flared for new scents. The forest was alive with birds cawing and screeching, the rustle of leaves and wings making it hard to hear anything else.

He caught the scent of blood and the hunt was back on, as he darted into the low, tangled under brush on the forest floor. It was a mess of roots and thorns, and he felt both familiar with the terrain and as though it was the first time he had ever been there. He tracked the blood through the thicket, hearing a rustling and moan of death ahead. Not long now.

The brush began to thin out and he cautiously came into a clearing, stalking his prey. It was not a deer as he thought it would be, but a lioness, wounded but angry. Briefly he wondered how a lion had ended up here, but then also wondered how a dog like himself could have such coherent thoughts. The lioness growled at him as she licked her wounds and he realized he had not caused her to suffer these wounds. No, these were deep and large wounds, much too vicious to have come from a lowly dog. A low, long growl came not far from his side and he turned to see angry steel grey eyes glaring at him, teeth in a snarl. The direwolf was large, easily twice, if not three times, his size. White and grey fur stood on edge along its back as it moved towards him and he readied his attack.

But the direwolf moved past him, attention focused on the wounded animal ahead of them. With a loud, vibrating roar from the lioness another large animal emerged from the thicket, this time behind the lion. Slobbering, rabid snarls came first, then wild, angry red eyes as the huge dog appeared through the thorns. The dog was not as big as the direwolf, but much larger than the hound—scarred muscles rippling across its chest and legs, its paws easily twice the size of his own.

It stepped over the lioness to protect her, slobber dripping from his open mouth as he panted. The other hound felt a visceral need to kill this beast and growled loudly, following the tail of the direwolf. Snarling and barking, the large dog charged at the direwolf, jumping as it approached. Colliding into each other, they both fell into a tangle of bites and swipes, dirt, slobber, blood and twigs flying in their wake. The lioness watched in morbid fascination, teeth bared and a low growl in her throat.

The direwolf yelped as the large dog landed a bite into her shoulder, pulling away fur and skin.

Desperate to get the rabid dog off the direwolf, he charged at them, knocking the dog away from the direwolf. They tumbled away from the others, clamoring and snapping at each other. With renewed focus, the direwolf bolted for the lioness who was unable to pull herself up and defend herself. Towering over the tawny beast, the direwolf growled with wild grey eyes meeting equally angry emerald eyes. The lioness let out a roar that was halted by the dire wolf's teeth digging into her neck and ripping back and forth with fury.

The dogs tussled in the dirt, landing bites and scratches on each other. The smaller dog managed to move away to plan his next move, limping badly from his wounds. A roar pierced the charged air and the large dog turned to see the lioness he was supposed to protect being ripped open. Taking the chance to attack while he was distracted, the smaller dog charged him but not quickly enough to miss the bigger dog ducking. Caught off guard, he tried jumping over the bigger dog but the large beast reached up, biting into the soft flesh of his belly. Yelping, he fell to the ground.

Panting and confused by the lack of pain from the wound, he watched as the direwolf attacked the large dog, their bloodied mouths snarled and barking.

He tried to stand but found himself unable to, as though his body didn't work anymore. He was a dead weight. Looking down at the wounds, he saw not the dark grey fur of his body, but the bloodied body of a naked man. Panicked and confused, he looked up at the other beasts fighting but did not catch them before his vision went black.

—

The cottage was in the middle of a field, isolated from any other structure. The old man had likely farmed the land years ago, before Winter had come and ravished the lands. Now it sat quietly in an eerie, misty field with just a falling stone wall and a scraggly old oak that jutted and stretched high and wide.

In the night, the fire had died out in the main room and with the coolness of Spring, the bedroom had gotten uncomfortably cold. She stared at the ceiling for sometime, counting the rows of thatch over and over, getting a different number every time. Snoring broke her concentration and she looked over to the large man lying next to her under the blankets. The hairs of his chest moved slightly as she breathed against him and she thought it was silly that he'd slept without a shirt on in this cold.

There was a faint blue light coming from the window, casting faint, long shadows along his face as she watched him sleep. She untangled herself from his arm and the blanket, rising gently, so as to not wake him. Quietly making her way to the other room, she pulled on her cold, bloodied clothes and grabbed her pack. Maybe she should just continue on alone, she wondered as she walked outside to get Meria.

The mare nickered welcomingly as Arya picked the lock and led her out, closing but not locking the gate on the other three horses. After attaching her pack to the side of the saddle, she swung up onto Meria and just laid against the mare's neck for a moment in the cold twilight.

The horse was warm against her undamaged cheek, and stepped impatiently as though she knew what Arya wanted. Arya rubbed her neck and chuckled, pulling on the reins and kicking her lightly in the side.

"Alright girl, let's ride."

The leather of the saddle squeaked gently as Meria began to trot off, Arya bounced lightly up and down, gripping the reins sturdy. With a few more kicks, the horse increased pace and Arya leaned into the movement, rising out of the saddle, her heels digging down in the stirrups.

With the moon hanging low in the sky, faintly illuminating the ground, she closed her eyes and felt the world disappear as the horse galloped across the misty fields. She had only had the horse for a few months but it felt like they had spent an eternity together; she felt as though she was a part of the large beast as they coursed through the low grass. The power in the strides below her felt like her own, pushing her further away from everything and allowing her to shut everything out again.

The last two days had been the most confusing and difficult days she'd experienced since the Long Night and she was irked that she had even ran into the man that still lie sleeping in the house now a good mile behind her. Regardless if she had once thought of him as a guardian, he was a liability now, a distraction that needed to be dealt with. Opening up to him had been a silly, girlish mistake that she regretted; thinking she could be human and normal and connected to another person was foolish.

_'I'll be your family.'_

Tears ran down her cheeks as she kicked Meria hard in the side, whipping the reins and charging her forward.

Gendry had been the only person she'd opened up to, bared her soul to in the frosty caves during Winter. Despite the madness and death around her, she had felt safe in his arms, even if she had been a better killer than he had. She thought of the strong, warm embrace they'd shared after every battle—the fear and anguish that had washed away as he'd kissed her hard in the aftermath, like she was the only thing that mattered.

And she had been a stupid girl, she reminded herself. They had gotten too comfortable and forgotten the purpose of life right then—to survive. Not love, not comfort, nothing but survival.

She gasped out a loud cry as Meria galloped, the hot tears running steady down her enflamed cheeks. Furrowing her thick brows, she kicked Meria again, whipping the reins as hard as she could muster. The beast let out a high-pitched scream and raised up on her back legs in fear, knocking Arya off of her before trotting away.

Arya hit the ground with a loud thud, fortunate that she at least remembered how to fall from a horse. She watched Meria several yards away, tail swishing anxiously as she grazed amongst the tall grass. Looking around her, she didn't recognize anything, didn't see the small house or the large oak that stood guard next to it. With a groan she stood, dusting herself off and wiping the wetness from her face.

The sky had started to turn a fiery orange along the tree line and the low, lazy mist had started to move skyward as it evaporated. Walking towards Meria, she contemplated her next move.

—

It was fucking cold when he woke up—cold and lonely he noted quickly—realizing the girl had left his side. She had come to him in the middle of the night with such vulnerability and he had felt compassion for her, as he watched her battle her need to be a cold, heartless killer with the stronger desire to connect with another human. He knew the feeling all too well. Remembering the little bird, he chucked to himself at his poor attempts to connect with the frightened girl—surely he scared her even more.

Sitting up in the bed and stretching out his stiff muscles, he realized that in the last 15 years, the only two people he had tried to open up to had been the Stark girls. He scoffed at himself, realizing how pathetic that seemed. The eldest girl had been a pretty treat in the mess that was King's Landing's political chaos. If he was going to sniff at the heels of that cunt of a prince, he was at least thankful he had her to look at. Nothing would have ever happened between them, not unless he had forced himself on her, which he easily could have done, but that didn't stop him from trying to make a connection, however poor his attempt.

He knew she'd never have him, no matter the circumstances—well, maybe if he had been a handsome, honorable Knight instead of the marred, whipped dog he was. He rolled his eyes, what use was it thinking about that when he hadn't seen her since Blackwater. From all accounts, she was dead anyway, like all of the other little ladies of highborn status.

Except for Arya.

As he dressed, he called out for her, only answered by silence and the distant sound of birds in the oak tree. Perplexed, he went to the main room, but the only thing that greeted him was his own pack lying against the table leg.

_Fuck._

Perhaps he had underestimated her imprudent nature. The house was cold and dark, except for the early dawn light peaking through the windows. Grabbing his pack, he muttered to himself and walked out the door to grab his horse.

Sure enough, Meria was missing from the pen. He couldn't believe it—it had been almost ten years and she was just gone from his life again. She'd just walked away again, the cold bitch.

His seething was interrupted by a whinny behind him and he turned to see Meria tied to the large oak. In the warm early morning light, he saw Arya sitting on the stone wall. A relief he wasn't expecting washed over the fear of losing her again that he also hadn't expected. Setting his pack down, he walked towards the tree.

Looking towards him from her distant gaze across the fields, she regarded him.

"We're a good team, you know. I haven't fought with anyone who balanced the pace of the fight with me like you do."

Arya's wall was back up, but he read between the lines of her words.

"Fucking hell, girl. I thought you left me in the middle of nowhere again," he joked as she stood to ready Meria.

"Shall we go sell those horses?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Consider sharing your thoughts on the story so far, I would very much appreciate it! Thanks for reading!


	7. gold and red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya and Sandor run into some trouble at the Inn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a big believer in the emotion of music, as you'll see with the noted lyrics at the beginning of each chapter. The titles are linked to the playlist I created to get into the mindset with this story, or you can search for 'Dogwood Winter' on Spotify, you should be able to find my playlist, if you'd like to transport to my world. :)

 

**six.**

 

Wait on, the thunder sky  
Wherever there's smoke, there'll soon be fire  
And what could bring bad luck  
I've been looking at you too much  
From the outside, from the outside  
Everyone must be wondering why we try  
Why do we try?

**[\- Wildest Moments, Jessie Ware](https://open.spotify.com/user/grafxnerd/playlist/6lfy4MDQinZ3AvxbrzlH0x) **

 

—

 

The rains had been relentless all day as they traveled with the other horses to the nearest town to sell them. A deep scowl had made itself at home on Sandor’s face ever since the first drop hit his cheek. When the drizzle had turned to a steady rain, he had cursed for a solid hour before succumbing to the fact that it wasn’t going to change nature. And when he had shut up, it had begun down pouring, soaking them to the bone and he couldn’t help but laugh at thetwisted way the Gods fucked with him. 

_Some plan they have for me, eh Ray?_ He thought to himself bitterly.

He looked over to the wolf-girl who rode next to him, her detached stare placed firmly forward. Her hair was plastered to her face, and he watched as she wiped it out of her eyes along with a healthy amount of water. 

“You look like a drowned rat, girl,” he said loudly, trying to compensate for the deafening sound of the rain. 

“You’re not winning any beauty contests, dog,” she countered, not even looking over at him. 

So they were back to this. While he was genuinely concerned for the girl’s mental state, what business was it of his to push the issue? At least this way she was actually talking to him. 

They had been on River Road all day without stopping. His legs were cramping from the cold and the saddle. He couldn’t remember if there was an inn or two between Stone Hedge and the Crossroads. If he didn’t get out of his sopping clothes, get something to eat and drink a barrel of ale this evening, he’d likely murder the next person they came upon. 

Trying to take his mind off the incessant barrage of rain, he thought back to last night when she’d come to his bed, still vulnerable and open. Not exactly used to soothing women, he hadn’t been sure of what to say or do, and honestly he’d been caught off guard by a half naked woman in his bed. It made him uncomfortable, the girl could be his daughter—she’d said it herself, _father_ —and to think of her in any lascivious manner seemed inappropriate. 

But gods be damned, she had grown into a powerful, merciless, cold, deadly, _beautiful_ woman. It made him ache. He shifted uncomfortably in his saddle, his drenched pants stuck to his legs. She was a different kind of beautiful; he never thought she’d turn out like her sister, a porcelain dream with perfect hair and bright eyes, always proper and civil. No, Arya was wild—truly a wolf—and even to this day, she did what she wanted without regard for what others thought about it. He was a bit envious of it, honestly. Going through life with a brand on his face didn’t exactly make it easy to ignore everyone, especially at his size. But he supposed that’s what shrewd comments and a deadly sword were there for. 

Calloused fingers had met soft but marred skin; her life had been written on her exposed thigh last night, covered in an array of scars both large and small. She wasn’t afraid of getting her hands dirty, adding another scar to her skin, even to her beautiful face—vanity was not something she had ever concerned herself with. 

_Beautiful_ , he snorted to himself. He wondered what she would think he if told her that she was beautiful. She’d probably call him a bloody girl and never stop teasing him. 

“Oh thank the gods,” he heard Arya rejoice and it took everything he had to not gallop the horses to the inn ahead of them. 

 

—

 

They had happened upon the Inn of the Kneeling Man, a long, low building along the shore of the Red Fork. It looked ominous in the early evening light, the rains still falling hard and a fog forming on the river behind it. With their horses taken care of and the extras sold for a tidy bag of coin—horses were scarce after the Long Night—Arya and Sandor trudged through the door of the inn, a sign with a kneeling man above the doorway. 

Inside, the tavern was dimly lit with only a few wall torches that created long shadows up the walls, making it feel cavernous. There were several booths, as well as a few tables scattered within and a bar along one wall. At one end there was a large hearth that glowed brightly, on the other end a hallway towards the rooms. The stone floors were cold and echoed the hum of conversation within the vast room.

“I’ve heard they’ve good ale here,” Sandor mused. They chose a table furthest from the door and sat along the same side, their backs to the wall. Old habits.

Arya put two fingers in the air as the innkeeper looked their way. “Guess we’ll find out.”

“Even if its shite, it’ll be something better than _only_ being soaked through like a fucking fish.” 

The innkeeper brought over two large horns of ale, setting them heavily down on the table. 

“Rabbit stew’s on order tonight, folks.”

“Aye, two of your biggest bowls, and fast,” Sandor grumbled as he brought the mug to his mouth. Hastily, he tipped the mug back higher and higher, a watery gulp coming from his throat every other moment until it was empty and on the table again.

“And another ale!” he yelled after the innkeeper.

Arya had watched him, eyebrow raised; she wasn’t even disgusted, just impressed as she fingered the mug into her hand, turning her attention towards it and taking a deep drink. The stew had hardly been sat on the table before they dug in greedily, slurping and chewing with no regard for appearances. Arya winced as her jaw moved back and forth. It had been their first meal since the rabbits in the woods, if you didn't consider the small heel of stale bread they split when looking for the horses. Between slurps of the stew, Sandor guzzled down more of the ale, feeling it dribbled down his face along with the broth but too preoccupied with sating his hunger to care.

When they’d finished, they both sat back against the wall, sighing as their bodies warmed despite drenched clothes. 

They heard a group of men getting louder, a few of them were wearing the red and gold of the Lannisters. Arya and Sandor watched passively with ears pricked; it wasn’t normal to see those colors anymore, what with House Lannister practically gone—it had to mean it was Cersei’s men. 

“You can’t wear those colors ‘ere, boy,” the men were barking at a young soldier, a thin and dark man with narrow features, dressed in red and black, the colors of the Targaryen House. Unsullied armies were still occupying the Riverlands, upon the new Queen’s behest. 

“Oy, you listenin’, you cockless nancy,” another soldier grumbled, pushing the seated man in the shoulder. 

Arya felt for the hilt of her sword anxiously—if a fight broke out, would those soldiers recognize her, or more likely, the Hound? But Sandor sat calmly, watching the exchange between the men over the horn of ale he drank. 

“Fucking Lannisters, always causin’ trouble,” he muttered under his breath. 

“We should leave before they see us. We want to get to Casterly Rock, but I’d really prefer not to go as a prisoner,” Arya whispered. 

“A few Lannister cunts aren’t making me move. The ale’s good.”

Arya looked at him incredulously, baffled he would risk their lives over a fucking drink. _Fucking alcoholic._

Sandor finished off his ale with a belch and slammed the cup down on the table, cracking the horn. A hush came over the room as the soldiers turned towards them, their hands on their swords.

“Sit the fuck down, some of us are trying to drink,” he growled at them.

For the moment, the soldiers left the Unsullied men alone to their meal and marched over to where the wolf and dog sat. There were four soldiers, fully armored in gaudy gold filigree and that fucking lion on their chest, Sandor noticed. They seemed uninterested in the girl sitting next to him, which played to his advantage. Underestimating the killer next to him meant this whole mess would be finished with before his buzz was gone.

The men looked down their noses at him. _Cunts._

One of the men came forward, chest puffed out, staring at him. A look of recognition came across his face.

“You’re Sandor Clegane—You’re the Hound!”

“Aye, and I’m trying to fucking drink,” he said gruffly as he reached over to take the girl’s ale and drink it. 

She glared at him but didn’t make a scene—let them focus on him and ignore her. Under the table, her hand had already gone to the inside of her boot to silently retrieve one of the daggers. Gripping it, she laid her hand in her lap under the table.

“Queen’s got a bounty on you still. Desertin’ the king all those years ago like the mutt you are. Doesn’t let go of a grudge I suppose,” the soldier went on. 

“She always was a bitch,” Sandor mused, bored with this whole ordeal. He picked at his teeth with his pinky. 

“She isn’t queen anymore,” Arya couldn’t help but interject, thinking about the sacrifice Jon had made to put the Targaryen woman on the rightful throne in King’s Landing.

The soldier looked over at her with his hand on his sword, irked. 

“Like I told ‘im over there, this is Lannister territory, so maybe you should shut yer mouth little girl before I put something in there to shut it up m’self,” he threatened, glaring at her. 

She matched his glare, gripping her dagger under the table. Their stare down was interrupted when Sandor reached down next to him and placed the double edged axe he’d taken from one of the men at the house onto the table as hard as he could, shaking the bowls and empty ale horns on the table. 

“And I said ‘m trying to drink,” he barked as he rapped his fingers on the wooden handle of the axe. 

The men behind the first soldier drew their swords, the sharp sound of metal pulling from its sheath ringing in Arya’s ears. She looked over the men quickly—two of them were wide eyed in apprehension, this likely being their first time using their swords outside of the training grounds; the other looked formidable, not quite as big as Sandor but the first man who’d been doing all the talking was about her height, so she figured it evened out. 

The first soldier glared at him, considering his options, likely concerned there’d be repercussions for not bringing the Hound back to the Rock. As he went to draw his sword, Sandor growled and in a swift movement grabbed the axe and flipped the table towards the man, pushing him back into the others. 

Arya dodged away from the commotion and towards the smaller men as they fumbled with their swords. As one of them swung towards her, she slid under him, slicing across his inner thigh with a clean motion. Blood spilled onto the stone floor. He dropped his sword with a yell, falling to the ground with a sliced artery. _One down._

The other inn patrons backed away as the Unsullied moved between them and the commotion, shields up in defense. If they got involved, it could trigger more hostility with Casterly Rock, so their orders were to only intervene if necessary. So far, Arya and Sandor seemed to have things under control. 

Sandor rounded the table to parry the first swing of the soldier’s sword with his axe. With a heave and growl, he pushed the man away, into the large soldier, giving him enough time to swing the axe around and mortally slice the soldier’s neck. The soldier behind him, almost as big as himself he noticed, would be a more worthy opponent. Quickly he looked to Arya but the girl hardly needed his help with the two simpletons she had taken on. He swore she gave him a wink as she dodged the first swing of her opponent’s sword. 

The second soldier was a better swordsmen than the first, she noted as she dodged his swing. She pulled her short sword from its scabbard and with a sliding spin to avoid his next attack, jabbed towards him. Her hand met the floor with a hard scrape as she fell past him, rolling over herself with a flourish and swinging around with her sword pointed towards him, grinning menacingly. She twirled the sword in her hand with typical Braavosi flair, feeling its balance and swung high to distract him, then spun around and landed a sharp slice into his leg. Down he went, and her sword into his neck. Her eyes grew darker.

Between his own strikes with his foe, he couldn’t help but notice her movements again. Every move she made was so calculated and natural at the same time, fluid and harsh all at once. Even Brienne hadn’t fought with that much gusto—there was a performance to her movements unlike any he’d seen before. To see a woman handle herself in combat the way Arya did was sacred, rare, carnal. 

“Girl!” 

In the flurry of the fight, she’d neglected to finish off her first opponent, who despite bleeding out had managed to pull his sword high and swing towards her. Her eyes went wide as she attempted to spin out of his way, but not before he landed a sloppy but deep strike to her lower back. Fire seared through her as she fell to her hands and knees in agony. The damp sensation of blood ran down her sides, the cool air hitting her exposed back through the torn leather and linen. 

He saw red. The idea that she could be hurt in any serious manner suddenly overwhelmed him with a sense of ownership and fear, a vulnerability he had never experienced. Letting out a loud bearish roar, Sandor pulled his sword from his sheath and swung low under his opponents high swing, cutting through his lower legs with practiced ease before plunging it directly into his face. No sense in pleasantries here.

Stomping over the dead men, his sweaty brow furrowed with angered intention, he growled as he charged the remaining soldier who saw his large form and began backing off. With one final swing, he cut the boy down for good. 

The moment the man had gone down, the innkeeper’s wife had ran to Arya, pressing a towel into the wound to stop the bleeding. 

“Need to watch your back better,” he admonished as he knelt beside her.

“You were supposed to be my back. All this for fucking ale,” she grumbled. She brushed her bangs out of her eyes to make sure he saw her glaring.

“Its good ale.”

The innkeeper’s wife lifted the back of her shirt to see the wound better. “Its deep, love, but it’s nothing a few threads won’t fix.”

“Little lady is turning into a doll,” he smirked.

“Little lady is going to stab you in your sleep if you don’t shut up,” she grumbled, standing with the help of the older woman.

Sandor stood and surveyed the damage around the dead Lannister soldiers. Leaning over to the closest table that had been abandoned in the brawl, he grabbed a horn of ale and tipped it back.

“Really good ale.” 

She sighed in exasperation, causing her to wince. 

“Come dear. We’ve got a nice room you all can have for the night, as thanks for dealing with those pests,” she said softly, leading Arya towards the rooms. The woman continued on about the annoyances of the Lannisters now that they no longer held the seat at King’s Landing.

Sandor turned back to the mess he made. Noticing the largest of the Lannister men had on a nice leather brigandine under his armor, he began picking at the dead man’s plates to get to it. Dead men don’t need armor. 

With the help of the Unsullied men, he dumped the soldiers into the river, spitting in the direction of the Lannister corpses. The soldiers, not interested in pressing the issue, simply nodded and walked off in formation; he liked their style, not so many words.

_What a fuckin’ night,_ he thought as he headed to collect their steel and check on the wolf-girl.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Consider sharing your thoughts on the story so far, I would very much appreciate it! Thanks for reading!


	8. exposed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor finally sees Arya for who she's become.

****

**seven.**

 

 _And I'll use you as a warning sign_  
_That if you talk enough sense, then you'll lose your mind_  
_And I'll use you as focal point_  
_So I don’t lose sight of what I want_  
_And I've moved further than I thought I could_  
_But I miss you more than I thought I would_  
_Oh I'll use you as a warning sign_  
_That if you talk enough sense, then you'll lose your mind  
_ **[\- I Found, Amber Run](https://open.spotify.com/user/grafxnerd/playlist/6lfy4MDQinZ3AvxbrzlH0x) **

_—_

 

She had sat there on the bed in grim silence, gritting her teeth while the old woman had cleaned and sutured the wound. Twice in no more than a day’s time. Twice she had been injured; that might be a new record. _This is what happens when you sidle up next to someone_ , she lectured herself. Too many variables to keep track of. Maybe she should have just kept riding this morning. 

The room felt damp from the unrelenting rains and she shivered. With a slow scrape on stone floors, she moved one of the chairs at the table closer to the fire and sat down gingerly. The blood was starting to dry on her clothes, causing it to stick to her skin. Slowly she undid the leather buckles on her gambeson—one of the few pieces of finely stitched clothing she still had from Winterfell—and pulled her arms from each side, letting it fall to the back of the chair. Toeing off her boots she let the fire warm them before untying her pants and sliding them off along with her breeches. Stiffly she lifted the tunic over her head and collected the items to be washed. She rinsed them out in the basin, wringing the dirt and blood out before laying them on the hearth to dry. Sitting back in the chair, she fingering at the fabric around her chest. 

She had always felt like a boy, feeling slighted to have to suffer through activities like singing and sewing while decisions and wars and other exciting things were happening without her. At 23, she didn’t fault her body like she had as a child and young teen. She appreciated what it was capable of and that it was up to her to do with it what she wanted. 

Which was probably why her naked body was littered with so many scars, she mused as she looked herself over. Tenderly she ran a finger over her stomach where the nasty scars from the Waif still puffed up. They didn’t hurt anymore, but whenever she touched them, they felt like a foreign surface with little sensation. Undoing the fabric around her chest, she unraveled it until a pile lay on the floor, her breasts sore from constriction. With a fresh tunic on, she did something she hadn’t done since her last real wash; pulling the dragonglass pin from against the nape of her neck, she let her dark hair fall to her shoulders. It hung just past her sharp collarbones and flowed in waves from being twisted up for so long. It was damp from the day’s rain and smelled of sweat, smoke and fennel. 

She fingered the pin in her hand; it was a light-stealing obsidian with the Stark sigil carved into its body. Was she the only Stark left? The thought of the wolf dying with Winter seemed a little too poetic, she contemplated grimly. Winter is gone now. And she sure didn’t feel like a Stark anymore. She felt like no one. 

With a fumble of metal latches and the creaking of hinges, Sandor opened the door and set their weapons on the table.

“I’ll clean those later—think we can get some good gold for that Lannister steel,” he started on, before turning to see her in the light of the fire.  

There she was again; half naked in front of him, brooding. But now, she seemed even softer than the night before. Now, her dark hair lay loose, waving around her round face as she turned to regard him, the auburn of the Tully’s coming through in the fire’s blaze. Her creamy skin glowed in the light, catching on her collarbone and he let his eyes wander down the half buttoned opening of her tunic.

He cleared his throat and looked away, his hands resting on his belt awkwardly. 

“Where are your breeches, girl?” 

“Bloody,” she said matter-of-factly. “Someone got me sliced up.”

“Aye, thank yourself,” he returned, looking over the steel on the table. 

“Anything usable?” she asked as she stood, carefully walking over to stand next to him, leaning in to look at the pieces up close.

He looked down to her, annoyed at how overcome he was by her. This deadly, wild, insane, clever, magnificent creature, wondering about the steel in before of her. He smirked to himself; if she wasn’t so mental, he’d probably consider her the ideal woman. Maybe that was the best someone like him could hope for. Hope. What a ridiculous fucking word. The smell of her hair was even stronger now than it had been under the tree just two nights ago. All he wanted to do was bury his hands in it, but he resisted best he could. 

“Only need so many swords on hand. Need to find you better armor so you don’t get carved up like a fucking turkey. Rest is good ale money. Maybe we can find some chickens. Sick of fucking rabbit.” 

She hummed in agreement, turning back to the fire. 

“That crone get you all sewn up like a pretty doll?”

“There’s only one bed in this room, it’ll be very easy to keep my promise of stabbing you in your sleep,” she quipped, looking over her shoulder at him. 

Watching the flames, she pinned her hair back up. The hem of her tunic was achingly close to the top of her leg when she did that, Sandor noticed. 

“You’re going to catch a cold, girl,” he warned, sitting in the other chair to remove his own boots.

“Why do you call me ‘girl’?” 

“T’fuck you mean? You got a cunt between your legs, don’t ya?” He removed his still damp cloak, unbuckled the sword belt around his waist and pulled the woolen shirt and linen tunic over his head. Walking past her, he sat them on the hearth in front of the fire to dry out next to her own clothes.

As he bent down, his broad, muscular frame begged her attention. Scars scattered across his back just like hers, though the number on his stretched frame told one of a longer journey. She’d seen his back before, when they had traveled through the Riverlands years ago, but there was a charge to the air—and eight years difference—that gave new perspective to what she looked at now. 

“Last I checked,” she mumbled, chewing on her lip. “But I’m not a child anymore.” 

Dark curls of hair covered his chest fading up to his neck and down his stomach, she noticed as he turned to her, bringing his face down to hers. The smell of leather, smoke and sweat overwhelmed her as she looked at him. 

“Aye, you’re not,” he conceded, tenderly grabbing her chin in his large hand. 

His softness caught her off guard, her heart in her throat like a rock, frozen and searching his face for his next move. Gently, he turned her face to look at her jaw’s laceration; her shoulders softened. His hand felt powerful and kind at the same time, much like it had the night before when he’d helped her back from that dark edge in her mind. 

“Won’t be as bad as my face, but the little lady has her own scars now,” he taunted, his thumb brushing along her jaw as he inspected, perhaps a moment too long.

There was something maddening about him, she thought. 

“Not a lady either, _dog,_ ” she snapped imprudently, her grey eyes met his, grabbing his wrist roughly. 

She found a comfort in their verbal sparing that she hadn’t felt in a long time, and while she knew she’d be able to accomplish her mission quicker without him, she had to admit it was nice having someone fighting beside her. And stitching her up. And keeping her warm at night. She felt her heart throb between her legs.

“Th’fuck you wanna be called then,” he demanded, only half as threatening as usual.

His face got closer to hers, meeting her heated intensity. He couldn’t explain the fierce, possessive feeling in his gut. There was a ferocity to the woman in front of him that he wanted to claim for his own, toss her onto the bed and devour her whole. She was madness incarnate, equally terrifying him and drawing him in. He wanted her hair down. He wanted her clothes off. He wanted her any way he could have her. He could easily force all of these things to happen, but he waited. Half his size and age, she had the power here; he was just a dog waiting for a command. 

Her hand softened only slightly on his wrist, as she contemplated her answer. Chewing on her lip, she slowly put her other hand in the middle of his chest, fingers buried in the hair. Her rough nails scraped the skin slightly, testing its bounds, and his restraint. His breath hitched as his whole body stiffened. 

“Arya…” he growled. 

She still held his wrist, tightening marginally when he said her name. Her eyelids fluttered in fervor and she dug her nails a bit deeper into his skin, causing him to hiss and when he tried to pull away, she grabbed his wrist tighter still. 

His moves were her’s to decide. 

Perhaps if she could figure this out as she went, she could process what the hell she was doing right now. She had gone a few months without needing to kill anyone, and suddenly she had awoken a bloodlust she hadn’t felt since the beginning of Winter. There was an erotic power to taking the life of another human that she recalled now, making her skin tingle and vibrate with energy. But even still, her heart beat more rapidly in her chest now than during any battle she’d been in. Even more than with Gendry. 

Just like with indulging her bloodlust, there was something wrong about what she was doing to the man in front of her, but that only caused her to continue resolutely. Gendry had felt right—meant to be—and look where that got him. The Hound felt wrong in every way and yet seemed to be a missing puzzle piece she’d lost long ago. It was like a drug, if she stayed away she was fine, but a single taste exposed an addiction she didn't know she had. Being around him exposed a level of thirst she remembered from when they’d crossed the Riverlands, one of exploration and anger, fueling each other.

Her nails dug deeper still, finally drawing blood.

A low growl came from his throat and it took everything he had to not bend her over right then. He felt the cool sensation of blood on his chest and looked down to a thin but rough finger wiping it off.

The finger disappeared into her mouth, licking the blood off slowly, her dark eyes boring holes through the back of his head. He ached like he never had before. Letting his wrist go finally, she kneeled to grab something from the pile of clothes on the floor, before putting one hand on his chest again and pushing him towards the bed behind him. Her hand stayed behind her back and he fought every instinct to remove the threat he couldn’t see. The stone was warm on his feet as he backed up, the fire a silent witness to the encounter between dog and wolf.

_Power is a funny thing_ , she thought. When you grow up with finery, in a castle with food always in your belly and clothes on your back, you become bored with it. As a child, she had to take pleasure in small things, like besting her brother at archery, or stealing the soldier’s metal helmets; little things that put her in power. She didn’t want the power of finery, of being better than someone simply because she had been born into it. She wanted her own power. 

She had found that power when she purposely took her first life—he had been there for that—and her next, and the next. When she left the man in front of her to die in a gorge, as painful as that had been, she had been in control, had the power; when she boarded that ship to Braavos, she had the power. Mutilating Meryn Trant’s body was her power, taking the Waif’s face, slicing Walder Frey’s neck and poisoning all his sons—that was all _her_ power. 

Then Winter had come and her power didn’t feel as strong. It wasn’t her choice to kill, wasn’t her power; it was a necessity to survival at that point, and she lost her power, she had lost herself. And even after Winter ended, she still felt lost despite finally being able to continue her mission; because until she could actually put a knife through Cersei’s heart, she was just existing in a memory of her former self. 

But then the memories became real again, he had shown up, no longer just a distant dream. And suddenly the reason began reappearing: the bandits who stole their horses, the Lannister men abusing their ill-kept power. He had unknowingly offered her a way back into her own power. His touch had been both gentle and strong, betraying an indomitable quality he had long held and she found herself starting her questioning all over again. Overthinking it was getting her no where, action had always gotten her where she needed to be; she flexed her fingers on his broad chest as she advanced and he withdrew.

Sandor’s legs hit the edge of the bed and she pushed him harder, the bed creaking under his weight as he sat heavily. Involuntarily his legs spread and she moved closer to him, looking down at him now. He searched her eyes, brows furrowing, knowing words would just complicate things more. His scarred face was illuminated in the light of the fire and her intense, soul-searching stare made him want to crawl away.

She licked her lips, tasting the salty, coppery taste of his blood in her mouth. Her eyes looked over him like a wild animal hunting prey; his chest was rising and falling steadily, if roughly. From behind her back came one of her daggers, shimmering in the dim, warm light. Lifting her arm, she put the blade against the inside of her soft but muscular forearm and slowly pulled it towards her as he made the faintest sound of protest, exposing a shallow red sliver that slowly began dripping. He watched her, hypnotized by her measured progression as her mouth went to the dripping blood, lapping up the drops. _Crazy bitch._

With a swallow, he tried to push the lump in his throat away. Being around blood since he could remember, it had always been like water—something everyone needed but that you didn’t give much thought to. In this warm, dark, damp room though, it took on a new life as she pushed him back further on the bed, straddling him as he lay back. She still held the dagger in one hand, and the other steadied her on his chest as she leaned down to put her lips to his roughly. 

His hips betrayed him, lifting and pushing her closer to him as his hands found her hips in the oversized tunic. He growled into her mouth, unable to get enough of the salty taste as his tongue found hers. It was over too quickly as she sat back, placing the blade between her teeth and grabbing his wrists, pulling them from her waist. 

His moves were her’s to decide. 

There was a warmth between them as she sat straddled over his hips, only the fabric of his trousers separating them. A strange combination of gratitude and hunger filled him as she laced her fingers into his, holding them, controlling them. 

With her permission, his hands were placed on her scarred thighs, both familiar and new. His fingers twitched against her skin and he began slowly moving them in place, pressing into the skin, watching her face for disapproval. To want to be touched by him—his large, calloused hands, his too thick beard, his big body, his disfigured face—disbelief was all he could muster. Disbelief and appreciation, for here was a woman who was purposely touching him and purposely letting him touch her.

Her hands sat on his stomach, small fingers tangled in the fur that ran down his middle and below his hem. Apprehension knotted in her stomach as she looked him over, a feeling she did not like experiencing. Taking the knife from her teeth, she placed the point of it on his chest, over his heart, pressing lightly. 

His breath hitched in his throat, brows furrowing in anticipation. 

“That’s where the heart is,” she repeated, clear eyes looking up at him. “That’s how you kill a man.”

Rough palms squeezed her thighs, as Sandor recalled the dying farmer they had come upon. 

‘ _Nothing isn’t better or worse than anything. Nothing is just nothing.’_

“There are plenty of other ways to kill a man, though,” she mused, running the knife slowly down his chest to his side. She pressed lightly, just enough to prick the skin.

He growled and reached for the knife, but she was too quick, putting her arm behind her back. Maddening, intoxicating, demented, sharp?— _fuck._

The knife poked into his inner thigh, and she met his eyes with a cool stare, raised eyebrow and deadly smirk. Her tunic had shifted, sliding off one shoulder, a particularly pronounced scar showing itself in the dim light along her collarbone. He was equally anxious and more aroused than he ever had been. With a contented sigh, she set the knife down on the bed and leaned forward, brushing the hair from his face. Delicate as she could be, her fingers ran along the scars and pits of the side of his face and he tensed. 

He felt invaded and so wholly consumed at the same time, wanting to both push her away and ravage her as she breached his defenses. No one looked at his face, no one talked about his face, no one touched his face. But her; in the few days they had been reacquainted had shown him what acceptance of flaws could be. That’s all either of them were: a viscera of flaws and desires.

She furrowed her brow, contemplating the situation, and sat back, shrugging the tunic off her shoulders to expose her breasts to the damp air. 

His fingers dug into her thighs as the linen puddled around her waist, feigning modesty. Hungry eyes looked her over, from her lidded eyes and barely parted lips to her stitched up jaw, down her long neck and sharp collarbone to her small but round breasts. Malnutrition during the Winter bared him witness to her ribs dancing under her skin as she tried to steady her breath.

She felt him pulse beneath her, but for her this was more than sexual. It was more than just arcane desires, it was the connection of vulnerability and death and lust; trying to find the lines between self-interest and the bigger picture. Removing one of his hands from her thigh, she grasped it with both of hers before setting it flat against her stomach, where angry scars told stories. His thumb rubbed gently along the faded but puffy marks. 

“I got these in Braavos when I was training to be a Faceless Man. I found out Meryn Trant was visiting a brothel and beating little girls, so I disguised myself as one of them and murdered him. Stabbed his eyes out, slit his throat, it was brutal really. But not before he knew who I was. The Faceless Men did not like this and took my sight from me.”

She closed her eyes, remembering the isolation. 

“When I finally got my sight back, I was to bring a face to the Gods. But I couldn’t. The woman had done nothing wrong and I wouldn’t kill without a reason. Through all of this, one girl at the House, formed a distaste for me. When the Men decided I couldn’t become one of them, she was sent to kill me.”

Her hand laid over his and she opened her eyes to regard him with intensity. 

“She did this to me. And I killed her for it,” she said quietly with a deadliness that betrayed her.

Leaning forward, she put her hand on his face again, eyes possessive, “And while I have my own reasons, your brother will die because of what he did to you.”

_Seven hells._

The way she blurred the line between so many carnal desires made his head spin. He wasn’t sure what was turning him on, the naked woman straddling his hips, the words she said, the blood, the threat of death. _Fuck her permission_ ; he grabbed her face and pressed his lips to hers, his facial hair rubbing hard and raw against her skin. 

She sighed into his mouth, her hands falling hard on either side of his head as her tongue found his. Surrendering to the way he made her feel, she pressed her body to his as though she were trying to become one with him. Rough hands found her breast and hip, feeling curves he hadn’t known she was capable of having. 

The hand on her breast slid up around her neck and pulled the dragonglass pin from her hair, a cascade of tawny silk falling around her round face. With as much ease as he could manage, he shifted his weight and laid her down, switching their roles. Her back arched off the bed as the wound made contact with the scratchy wool blanket.

“Fuck, sorry,” he offered as he sat straddled over her small frame. 

Clumsy fucker he was. Touching a woman in the way the one under him deserved to be touched was not something he was familiar with; he let her lead and expose as much of herself as she wanted, he would wait patiently. Every instinct he had told him to get this all over with and get her out of the room; but every other woman he had brought to bed wasn’t Arya Stark. She had brought him in, she had touched him, she had shown herself to him. He didn’t deserve it, but he’d be thankful all the same. 

Gradually she relaxed into the bed and pulled him down with her. Lying on his side next to her, propped up by his elbow, he looked down at her, watching her body rise and fall, marked and scarred and perfectly imperfect. The tunic was still wrapped around her waist as she turned over on her stomach and flipped her hair over one shoulder, out of her way. Shivers ran down her back, forming goose flesh in the wake of his fingers running down her spine, stopping just at the top of her buttock, partially hidden under linen. Past the fabric, her long legs hooked at the knee, feet dangling up in the air, crossed at the ankle. His hand came up to her hair, running his fingers through it, _finally._ Smoke, leather, mallow and fennel filled his senses as he leaned closer. She closed her eyes, feeling his lips on her shoulder, the slightest, almost possessive graze of teeth.

Remembering his thoughts from earlier that day about her deadly, beautiful nature, he squeezed her slightly.

“Beautiful,” he murmured into her hair.

“What?”

“Can’t call you girl. Can’t call you little lady. I’d call you beautiful,” he groused, groggily.

“And I’d call _you_ a bloody girl,” she mumbled, pushing him to his back and laying against his side. “Since when do you use words like that?”

He grinned and pulled her close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Consider sharing your thoughts on the story so far, I would very much appreciate it! Thanks for reading!


	9. healing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor suggests they stay put, Arya gains new information that changes their target.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a big believer in the emotion of music, as you'll see with the noted lyrics at the beginning of each chapter. The titles are linked to the playlist I created to get into the mindset with this story, or you can search for 'Dogwood Winter' on Spotify, you should be able to find my playlist, if you'd like to transport to my world. :)

****

**eight.healing.**

_And I run from wolves_  
_Tearing into me_  
_Without teeth_  
_I can see through you_  
_We are the same_  
_It's perfectly strange_  
_You run in my veins_  
_How can I keep you_  
_Inside my lungs_  
_I breathe what is yours_  
_You breathe what is mine  
_ _\- Wolves without Teeth, Of Monsters and Men_

 

_—_

 

The wind whispered in the knotted branches of foreboding limbs, wispy tendrils of moss barely hanging on. A stillness had come over the forest since she had arrived, the thick blanket of fog along the moist ground a shroud as she continued her hunt. Blood red in the sky, the moon illuminated the way through the twisting roots and rotted leaves. 

The howls continued—she knew they continued but she had not remembered hearing them the first time—louder now, calling her. Her pace quickened, rushing past sinewy webs glistened with dew made red in the moonlight. A pungent, sweet smell filled her lungs, the taste hanging high in the back of her throat. The forest was vast, a tangle of angry trees reaching for her as she searched for her pack. 

Another howl rang in the air, cut short in a tortured whine. 

Skirting the glade, she made her way towards the sound as the warm and coppery smell of blood became stronger. Matted with blood and twigs, a contorted white and grey body lay in front of her as the mist opened its curtain. Dead yellow eyes stared into nothingness, black oozed from its neck. 

The cry of ravens drew her concern away from the dead wolf in front of her, the birds stark against the blood moon as they flew away. Yet another howl begged her attention. Leaves and muck squelched under her as she began running, hoping to save this wolf. Just as the mist cleared and she saw the dark grey beast look towards her, he was hit in rapid succession by an invisible force. But when she came to him, only the body of the beast lie before her, headless and bleeding. 

With a loud caw, a raven landed on a rotted stump that seemed to appear from no where, picking at the head of the animal that lie dead at her feet. The bird screeched right at her it seemed, a terrible, ear shattering sound; she turned and ran into the fog. Illuminated by the moon’s reflection on the water ahead of her, the silhouette of another wolf head, this one black, sat atop a large rock, glistening with the blood of the animal. She looked around for the body, following the blood trail along the damp ground and stopped as it turned to rock.

A large weirwood tree stood brightly in the moon’s light at the top of a craggy hill, leaves on fire, branches filled with shrieking ravens. Under the bleeding eyes of the tree, a crevice expanded and a brown wolf ran towards her, teeth bared. The birds began cawing, trumpeting louder and louder before a flurry of black clouded the sky and rushed the wolf. 

They came and left like a clap of hands, and there was nothing left in front of her, not even the tree. Picking her way over the sharp struts of rock, careful not to slip on the slimy moss dotting them, she climbed to the top of the hill where the tree had stood. A vast stretch of ice reached as far as she could see, a cold wind blowing snow drifts into the air. 

Squinting hard, she saw red eyes through the dancing snow as a large white beast came forward. Howling into the sky, the white wolf closed its eyes and when it opened them again, they were ice blue. Baring its teeth, it ran towards her along the ice as it began breaking off in shards, falling into nothingness. Before the wolf could reach her, it was devoured by the landslide of ice and snow and disappeared forever. 

The wind and snow whipped up the steep ledge towards her like a tidal wave, consuming and disorienting her. Clumsily she felt her way back down over the rocks, the snow stinging her eyes as it lashed at her. 

She heard another howl, this one different from the others—smaller, softer, but just as angry. Picking up her pace, she started running towards it but as the snow and fog cleared, the animal came running beside her. Half her size, it managed to keep up with her, a black dog withkind, black eyes. Instead of stopping, she found herself running faster partly to see if it could keep up, partly because it felt like the right thing to do. 

Thunderous wings surrounded her, thousands of ravens cawing and pecking at them both. She dodged as best she could and when they finally left her alone, she turned to the dog in ferment, but the dog was no where to be seen. 

Nothing was around her. It was just black, consumed and empty at once.

—

The room was surprisingly warm for twilight, but the bed was cold next to him. Slowly he opened his eyes, blinking the sleep from them and looked at the cracked plaster on the ceiling of the room. Water stains created patterns along the pitted surface that he followed for some time. The crackling of a log in the fireplace drew his attention and he watched the flames with fear and awe as they danced together, licking the edges of the stone hearth. Other than the warm light from the flames, the room was grey in the twilight, washed out in the early hours of the morning. 

Outside, the call of a raven made his ear twitch in response, the morning slowly coming alive as animals and people awoke. The clank of metal against the table alerted him to the presence of another in the room and he remembered the bed warm not long ago. Across the room from him, perched atop one of the old wooden chairs with her legs crossed, Arya rubbed methodically back and forth along the steel they had procured from the Lannister soldiers. Her hair was a dark tangle from sleep, stark against the linen of the tunic that hung off her shoulder. Beside her on the table lay two piles, one cleaned and polished and the other a to-do list that, based on the number in the polished pile, she had been at for some time. 

Deft, thin fingers worked over the metal sitting across her lap quickly and accurately, completely consumed by her task. He watched silently, the warm glow of the fire illuminating her furrowed brow as she concentrated, wiping the sword up and down with a tack cloth. 

He closed his eyes and listened to the sound of her work, the clinking of metal, the soft squeak as the cloth ran over the steel, the occasional creak of the chair as she shifted in her seat. Since the winter had ended, he had just been wandering aimlessly, no real reason to his steps. It was nice, he noticed, to be able to just lie and exist in any modicum of contentment. Sure, she was fucking crazy but they understood each other—or at least he thought he understood her. He had at one time in their lives, anyway.

_Seven hells_ , he thought. The wolf girl was the only one he had ever really opened up to, the only one he had ever discussed his insecurities with. He’d doled out lessons to both the Stark girls when they were younger, but even though he had tried connecting with Sansa, it was practically impossible given her rose tinted glasses. They just didn’t have anything in common other than being hostages of the Lannisters. 

He had begrudgingly come to appreciate the company of the younger Stark during their travels, seeing a lot of himself in her. A child damaged beyond repair by the hand the gods had dealt her, dealing with it through anger and violence. Her ferocity towards retribution for those she cared about had sparked something in him that had sat in the pit of his stomach for months, bubbling to the surface not long before they had been separated. Scratch that—she had abandoned him. 

And while he had a chance to atone for a life of violence, it wasn’t his final destination. Being with Brother Ray’s encampment for several months as he nursed back to health had been healing not only to his body but to his mind. Almost like meditation, it had been a chance to reflect on his life away from the distractions plaguing the rest of Westeros. Then the Brotherhood had come along.

_‘You’re a fighter. You were born a fighter. You walked away from the fight. How did that go?’_

Cutting a weed back wasn’t going to make it grow into a flower. What he decided to do with his power was where he could affect change; he’d done his part for the living during the Winter, now he could do something else with it by helping Arya. A small smirk crossed his face as he lay there with his eyes closed—he’d always be a dog, following around one person or another, only this time, he had a pack to protect. 

“Funny dream?” she called over to him. 

He opened his eyes to a room brightened by a rising sun, bathed in a dusky pink light. She was still seated on the chair, her hair falling over her face in a shroud as she turned back to her work.

“Something like that.”

With tired muscles he sat up in the bed as it creaked under his weight. Scratching his bare chest out of habit, he ran his fingers over the marks she had carved into him last night. The bed was warm where he sat and all he wanted was to stay there for a bit, joined by her. He wasn’t sure if he was capable of actually relaxing, but this was the closest to it he’d been, he wagered. 

“How’s your back?” 

He didn’t move; he would stay in that warm bed as long as he could, probably until the growling in his stomach got too loud. 

Setting down the dagger she was cleaning, she stretched her long legs out in front of her, a display of muscle and scars. She still wore just the tunic, its hem grazing mid-way up her thigh, dancing along her cream skin. Coming to her feet, she padded over the warm stone floor towards him, a neutral expression on her face that screamed business. 

Wordless, she sat in front of him and shouldered her tunic off, letting it puddle around her waist as she leaned forward, perching on her hands. The orange light of the sunrise shimmered on her back as she hung her head low between her shoulders, exposing her whole back to him. 

On the left side of her back between her hip and spine, an angry red mark ran diagonal across her skin for a few inches. Carefully, he placed one hand on her spine to steady her and with the other ran his fingers along it, inspecting it. 

“How does that feel?”

She retracted as he touched her, sucking in air through her teeth.

“Not great.”

“Doesn’t look great,” he offered as he continued inspecting it. “It’s deep. Could get infected. She give you anything?”

“I have something in my pack that might work,” she remembered. 

Untangling himself from the blanket he still sat under, he retrieved her pack and watched as she dug through it with determination. She pulled out an oddly shaped bag made of leather that was buttoned closed with gold decorative snaps. Mumbling to herself as she searched through it, he couldn’t help but hold a curiosity to the obscure bag that she’d clearly had since before Winter. 

“Here we go.” Putting the odd bag back inside her pack, she handed him a small amber glass jar with a cork top. 

“Lean forward,” he instructed as he sat down behind her again. 

He spread a bit of the salve along the wound and she grabbed a strip of fabric from her bag and wrapped it around her waist gingerly and pulled her tunic back on, sighing in resignation. More than anything he wanted to offer her a bit of comfort but was unsure how to show it without seeming overbearing or presumptuous. 

“We should stay here an extra day. You can’t ride like that. Needs to heal. There’s a town about half a mile from here. We can walk there and sell that steel.” 

He was thankful she needed the healing and immediately felt bad for thinking it.

—

Arya felt anxious about staying in one place too long but knew she’d be miserable on a horse all day, and useless if they ran into trouble. They took their time that morning, checking on the horses and eating a small breakfast of porridge during which Sandor was poked by Arya to apologize for the disturbance the night before, even if the men hadn’t been wanted at the inn. 

Even though she knew she wouldn’t really be able to use them, she tucked two of her daggers into her boots, annoyed that she was unable to take her sword or the catspaw dagger with her as the belts had laid right on her wound.

In town, they found a smith who was reluctant to buy the Lannister steel, but with a bit of persuasive bargaining on Sandor’s part, they walked away with a good size pouch of coin and some chain mail for Arya. Understanding the importance of a crowd, Arya had insisted they take their time getting back to the inn, incase there were interesting things to be gleaned from the many conversations. 

Sandor didn’t like it. The smells were overwhelming, bouncing from the mouth-watering scent of meat pies and fresh bread to the pungent and sticky taste of blood at the back of his throat from the butcher to the nose burning smell of the melting metal at the smith’s shop. The crowds were noisy, people moved all around him, gesturing, talking, yelling. A farmer pushed through the people with a small flock of sheep, a young man yelled about pies and beef, women bargained and argued about the dusty bags of barley, wheat and oats piled up, a man yelled about the unfairness of his place in the pillory as a loaf of bread hung around his neck and all he could think about was the warm bed he’d left back at the inn. 

“I’ll give you one stag for it, no more!”

_Shut up._

“It’s easily worth two!”

_Shut the fuck up._

“Lookit it, it’s half the size the one over there—should I take my business there?”

_For fuck’s sake._

They walked past the fish stalls that stunk of the sea with a variety of fishes for sale. Mackerel, herring, cod, even eel sat glistening in the wet hay of the crates they had been transported in. A couple of dogs ran by, barking at each other as they fought over a cooked chicken they had stolen. He watched Arya blend in, her posture changing slightly, her inflection one of the Riverlands instead of her Northern accent. Arya laughed with the townsfolk as she bought a loaf of bread, chatted up the ladies at the flower stalls as she smelled the first flowers of Spring, and seemingly forgot that she was anyone other than one of them. Following like an obedient dog, he picked at the loaf of bread she had bought before they stopped just past the stalls, away from the crowds. 

“They’re worried,” she informed him, her eyes still searching the crowds. 

“What about?” he mumbled through the bread in his mouth. A piece fell on the ground. 

Mindlessly she reached over and pulled off a piece, chewing it loudly and messily. 

“That farmer with the sheep? Couldn’t leave them home. They’d be killed without someone watching,” she offered, alternating words and bread as she went. 

“Killed? What by?”

“They aren’t completely sure,” she chewed. “They disappear at night. All over the Riverlands. Sheep. Cow. Pig.”

“Chickens?”

“Too small,” she offered, knowingly.

“For what?”

Perhaps for effect, she eyed him as she chewed the bread slowly. Swallowing and wiping her mouth with the back of her sleeve, she gave him a sly grin.

“Wolves.”

—

In no real hurry, they had enjoyed a few pints at one of the stalls before meandering back towards the road. A few apples, some salted pork, a large wineskin actually filled with wine instead of water, half a loaf of bread and Arya’s chain mail had replaced the Lannister steel in the pack Sandor carried over his shoulder as they made their way back to the inn. It was late afternoon now, the sun hung low in the sky over the Red Fork to their left, the trees to their right bright with the setting sun and loud with the rustling of birds feasting on bugs.

“You’re not serious,” he looked at her incredulously.

“Why wouldn’t I be? She could be with them.”

“It’s been how long?”

“Six years,” she said softly, looking out over the Red Fork as they walked.

“Have you tracked an animal before?”

“It’s a pack of animals that leave dead animals in their wake, how hard could it be?” She kicked at a particularly big rock on the path. It skipped off into the grass.

“How do you know she’ll be there?” 

“I don’t. But if I don’t check, I’ll never forgive myself.”

He was silent except for the crunching of his boots along the dirt path.

“Afraid I’ll find a new pack?” She raised her eyebrow, making fun of him.

“Don’t want you disappointed when it’s just wolves.”

“How sweet of you.”

He grumbled and they continued in silence. 

—

The room was warm as the fire crackled and snapped, its flames licking the stone hearth, dancing together. Arya removed her cape and leather gambeson and toed off her boots, feeling the warm stone under foot as she moved closer to the fire. Sandor stood near the table, one hand absently picking at the wood as he watched her poke at the fire with a stick in the dusky glow. 

“Let me take a look at your back,” he ordered quietly, gesturing to the bed as he grabbed the amber jar of salve from the table.

The wool blanket was worn through in places, giving way to the sheets underneath as Arya sat down and pulled her shirt over her head, letting it puddle in her crossed legs as she faced the end of the bed. With a creak, he sat behind her, one foot tucked under him, the other on the floor.

“Remember that farmer and his daughter. Had that rabbit stew?” His voice was low and raspy, like he was telling a secret and didn’t know how to whisper. 

He ran his finger over the wound feeling the little bumps of the stitches and dried blood, noting it was doing better after a day of rest. The ointment was cold and burned a little as he gently rubbed it in before moving the bandage back into place.

“You beat him up and stole his silver,” she said wryly as she pulled the dragonglass from her hair. She looked over her shoulder at him, her eyes soft and welcoming for a change. 

His fingers found her hair and ran through it slowly, savoring the warmth and softness. For the briefest moment the world seemed to fall away as she sat there letting him touch her.

“I buried them,” he admitted quietly as he lay her hair over her shoulder, fusing with its placement mindlessly. “Brotherhood found their house as we were going North.”

She tensed at the thought of the Brotherhood and her run in with them years ago. A lump formed in her throat as she thought about Gendry. 

“You were with the Brotherhood?” Her voice was low, a hint of anger to it.

“Aye, after a few of their men cut down my friend. Wanted to help after all the damage I had done. That’s how I ended up with your brother.”

“Cousin.” He’d always be her brother, though.

“Whatever. Anyway. It made me think about the choices we make. That farmer and his daughter were going to be dead by Winter, but I didn't help them,” he said low, an echo of remorse in his voice.

The proximity of his body to hers relaxed her, his breath warm on her neck, causing hairs to dance along her skin, tickling. Despite herself, she reached over her shoulders and pulled his hands forward, hugging his forearms under her chin as she stared out the window. 

The sensation in the pit of his stomach was both uncomfortable and one he never wanted to go away. Wrapping his arms around her shoulders, he looked out the window in front of them, taking in the now familiar smell of her hair. He felt her running her fingers along the fabric of his shirt, the beat of her heart under his arms.

“It stuck with me. Lots of people died, but I had a choice in what my part was. I’m sorry about Mycah.”

“Who?”

“For fuck’s sake,” he scoffed and she pulled away. “The fucking butcher’s boy that you were always prattling on about.”

“I never prattled,” she said pretentiously, pulling her shirt back on.

“Like hell you didn’t,” he argued as he pulled his boots off and sat back further on the bed. “You don’t remember telling me to ‘burn in hell’? Giving me the death stare as you said my name every night?”

She laughed to herself as she scooted back to sit next to him, her legs splayed in front of her. Mindlessly she picked at the wool of the blanket. That was a whole other lifetime, when she had a family and was capable of silly things like friendships with a smelly boys.

“Doesn’t matter now,” she said quietly as she watched the proximity of their legs. 

She ran a hand along his thigh where the bone had stuck out as he had lay for dead in that ravine. He tensed at the touch, pulling away slightly but she kept her hand there.

“Did it hurt?” 

A simple question loaded with meaning. Yes, it hurt. It hurt when he fell, not just feeling but _hearing_ the bones breaking, his shoulder dislocating. But it had been more than physical pain. It hurt that he hadn't been able to protect her. It hurt when he had to beg her to kill him. It hurt to watch her so coldly deny him mercy. It hurt as she disappeared, ignoring his calls. It hurt as he ignored the looks of people around him as he learned to walk on it again. It hurt to dig into his past and reevaluate his life and actions. It hurt when Brother Ray had been hung and the little village destroyed, yet another familiar thing being taken from him. It hurt to swallow his pride and move on. And it hurt when she had come back into his life.

“Aye,” he said in a low voice as he put his hand on top of hers. 

The bed creaked slightly as Arya moved to straddle him, her small legs on either side of his large legs, her face right in front of his. She could see the scar on his shoulder from the man that had bit him, who unknowingly had written the end of The Hound’s story. Wordlessly, she fingered her way under his shirt and began pulling it up and off. 

Sandor’s breath hitched in his throat as he fumbled to help her remove it. He felt like she could see his heart pounding in his chest, moving his whole body in anxious energy. Distracting himself, he ran his hands along her legs, still clad in her cotton pants. Her fingers ran softly over the scar on his shoulder as he closed his eyes and leaned his head to the side, completing submitting himself to her. Delicate kisses followed her fingers and his hands slid further up her thighs, cupping her ass firmly. She nipped at the skin along his neck, whispering something about a new bite and he growled, his hands running under her shirt and lifting it off her. 

“Why?” she asked, a question that held so much weight, encompassing their past, the likelihood that they would meet up again after the Winter, what they were doing right now.

“Why what,” he mumbled into her neck as he pulled the bindings off her chest and grabbed at her breasts roughly. 

She groaned into his mouth as their lips crashed together roughly, her body pressing close to him as her fingers found the back of his head and flexed in his hair.

“You’re going to leave again,” she whispered into his lips, ashamed of even thinking it. He was having an annoying effect on her that she both hated and wanted more of.

He furrowed his brow, recalling that it was her that left him. His mouth moved to her neck, kissing, nipping, suckling as though he was trying to consume her whole. Her head rolled to the side with a sigh.

“You left me,” he mumbled apathetically against her collarbone as his lips grazed one of her scars.

He felt her tense and pulled back to see her looking down darkly. Good with words, he was. _Fucking nitwit._

Arya couldn’t deny the truth of his statement. But she had been just a child who was losing the last guardian she knew. She had done what she had to do to survive and if he couldn’t see that, it was his problem. Her thick eyebrows wrinkled as she looked up at him, her eyes a storm of emotion as she searched his. 

He watched the emotion simmer on her face like a boiling pot, slow at first before it began rolling across her eyes. Not wanting to see it boil over, he pulled her close and kissed her softly. 

“This old dog isn’t running anywhere,” he offered, brushing her hair out of her face. 

It was fucking sappy, but after all the shit he had dealt with the last forty years, he wasn’t going to take a good—albeit _crazy_ —thing for granted.

 

—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Consider sharing your thoughts on the story so far, I would very much appreciate it! Thanks for reading!


	10. heavy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their tracking leads Arya some place she never expected. Sandor worries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a big believer in the emotion of music, as you'll see with the noted lyrics at the beginning of each chapter. The titles are linked to the playlist I created to get into the mindset with this story, or you can search for 'Dogwood Winter' on Spotify, you should be able to find my playlist, if you'd like to transport to my world. :)

**heavy.**

 

_Help, I have done it again_  
_I have been here many times before_  
_Hurt myself again today_  
_And the worst part is there's no one else to blame_

_Be my friend, hold me_  
_Wrap me up, unfold me_  
_I am small, I'm needy_  
_Warm me up and breathe me_

**_[\- Breathe Me, Sia](https://open.spotify.com/user/grafxnerd/playlist/6lfy4MDQinZ3AvxbrzlH0x) _ **

—

She walked away rigidly to the distant sounds of him yelling. She wanted to run, but her feet were too heavy.

Kill me. 

Kill me. 

_Kill me._

It would haunt her, giving her nightmares for years to come. She had kept it together until she was sure he couldn’t hear her or see her anymore. It was hard to see anything as her eyes welled up. She swallowed the lump in her throat and squeezed her eyes shut, trying to push it all away.

Wetness left a streak on her dirty face. Once that first tear broke free, the rest followed in an unbroken stream. She collapsed to the ground, the rocks digging into her palms as she began to cry with a force that tore at her insides. A great sob escaped her, her body wracked with an onslaught of wails and tears.

She gasped for air and pounded at the ground like it was all the earth’s fault. Her palms got bloody but she didn’t care. She hated him so much. Why couldn’t he just listen to her instead of calling her a stupid girl? He was the stupid one, now he was dead. 

Her head fell to the dirt as she curled her legs under her body, trying to calm the painful sobs. Rocking back and forth, the bedrock dug into her shins but she didn’t feel it. All she felt was the same agonizingly cavernous hole ripping open in her chest that she’d felt so many times before. The blood pounded in her ears. Her feet tingled. She cried harder, her chest growing tighter as the bile rose in her throat. 

_Get up, you’re stronger than this_ , she berated herself, swallowing forcefully.

Through gritted teeth she sat up, her face dirty and wet, snot running from her nose and into her mouth. She gulped for air as she tried to calm herself. Slowly her shoulders relaxed and she opened her red eyes to the sky, defeated. 

_What now…?_

She looked down at the bag of coin she took from him, tears threatening to fall again. Blinking rapidly, she sighed and stood, her mouth in a grim, straight line.

_Braavos._

—

They had been tracking the wolves for a week now, meandering around the Riverlands in what Sandor assumed was no particular direction. Their rations were almost out and in the soggy lands, it was almost impossible to find any rabbit or squirrel. 

“You can’t track,” he called down from his horse for what she wagered was at least the tenth time in the last few days.

“I _am_ tracking,” Arya glared at him from the ground as she walked beside her horse, reins in hand. She knelt down and examined the soddened grass ahead of them.

“It’s been a week. We’re in the fucking swamp. There’s no livestock in the swamp.”

“I know she’s this way,” she snapped, running her hands along the grass.

“She’s not anywhere because you don't know that she's even with them.”

“I appreciate your support. Really. It's truly heartwarming and makes this whole situation so much easier,” she glowered as she stood, tugging on Meria’s reins. 

“Can't complain about something you brought on yourself, wolf-girl,” he picked, kicking his horse to follow her. 

She ignored him. “I noticed a few tracks a ways back so we're still on the right path.” 

“Do you want me to clap?” He sighed loudly to let her know his opinion as they continued slowly. 

“You didn't have to come, you know.”

“Nothing better to do.”

“Then shut up.”

They had bickered like this for the whole week and it was starting to grate on her. She had found herself on more than one occasion thinking about what strangling him would feel like but knew that although she was faster than him, he was still stronger. 

Plus, despite herself, she had missed it after all these years. Sure, a lot of things had changed: they weren't the same people anymore—he had softened up over the years, she had hardened considerably—and their relationship had evolved into some weird, complicated dance which made things tedious at times. But they were still the same in so many ways: she was still led by a need for revenge, and he was still a grumpy dog looking for a purpose. 

She did wonder if he had a point about wasting time out here instead of heading to Casterly Rock, but she’d never tell him that. No, that would admit she was wrong and she couldn’t readily admit that to _him._ That, and the gnawing feeling that she was on the right trail kept pushing her closer to what she _knew_ was Nymeria. 

Sandor slapped at a fly on his neck. It was mid day now, the cool dampness of morning having burned off in the high sun. It was an unusually warm day in comparison to the past week, but Spring did that—flip flopped back and forth, unable to make a decision on whether it wanted to go back to Winter or move forward into Summer. He hated it. 

Pulling his horse to a halt, he dismounted with a grunt into the soft ground with a squelch. His nose wrinkled as he looked down at the offending mud and noted he was fairing a lot better than Arya or the horses. 

“What are you doing?” she asked as he handed her his reins.

“Taking a piss.”

He didn’t take more than five steps from her before pulling himself out and beginning to urinate. Arya rolled her eyes, turning towards the marsh in front of them, searching for signs of life. Other than a few birds flying low over the grasses, there was nothing. She was starting to give up hope.

“Found your wolves.”

She turned to see Sandor standing over a muddy patch a few feet from her. Hurriedly, she handed him the reins of the horses and knelt down to inspect it. Unless it was a bear, which she didn’t suspect were in this part of the Riverlands, it was most certainly a wolf. And a big one at that. 

“We’re getting closer, this is pretty fresh. Maybe half a day behind them,” she tried to meter her excitement. Even she was getting sick of the marshes. 

“Thank the fucking gods,” Sandor mumbled as he pulled the horses along behind Arya.

—

They made camp in a small alcove of fragrant pine trees just off the swamp after a couple more hours of tracking. Despite the dampness of the surrounding marsh, a small fire crackled in front of them as they silently ate a small dinner of salted pork, splitting an apple. 

“Why are you so bent on finding these wolves?” Sandor asked as he dug in his pack for the wineskin. 

“I don’t care about the wolves, I just want to find Nymeria,” Arya said through the apple in her mouth.

“You think she’s going to let you put a leash on her? Become your lapdog?” He took a big swig of the wine before handing it to her.

“No, of course not. I tried that once when we met on my trip back to Winterfell before Winter. I just… I need to know she’s okay after everything that’s happened. She’s a part of me and…” 

She paused for a minute, her eyebrows wrinkling, trying to find the words to describe the feeling. The wine was tart on her tongue as she ran it over her teeth in contemplation.

“There’s this energy that you get when you’re connected with another being. You feel like you _are_ them. Their pain is your pain, their happiness is your happiness. I dream about her all the time, its like I’m seeing what she sees. I feel the meat tearing when she kills, the taste of blood in my mouth. And I know it’s all in my head, but it feels so _real._ ”

Sandor watched her in the glow of the fire as she mused over her relationship with the direwolf and he wondered what it was like to have a connection with something like that. 

“I wonder if she sees what I see.” She laughed to herself, realizing how stupid she sounded and looked towards the dancing flames.

“No wonder she’s running from you, having to stare at this ugly mug for half a fortnight,” he quipped, taking the skin from her. 

“You’re a canine just like us,” she offered, almost reassuringly. Her eyes were warm but shimmered with a deadly glow as she looked at him. It gave him a chill. 

—

Arya had slept fitfully that night, mumbling and tossing about. At one point Sandor had moved his pack and blanket closer to her and pulled her into the crook of his arm to calm her down. After a few hours of restful sleep, she suddenly opened her eyes wide with a gasp, feeling like her heart had dropped to her stomach. 

The trees were quiet above her as she looked at the faint grey sky of pre-dawn, trying to calm her pulse. Sandor snored softly next to her on his side, one arm around her protectively. She laid on her back for a few moments, catching her breath before slipping out of his embrace and standing. Meria was sleeping and seemed perfectly content, but she noted Sandor’s horse seemed agitated by something. 

She looked around her, trying to figure out what was bothering the horse. It was early morning, probably an hour until sunrise she guessed. There was a thick fog over the grey glades and a damp chill in the air that caused her to pull her cloak tightly around her body. Moving to the edge of the tree line, she looked out over the murky bog. Frogs and crickets sang their early morning songs as the reeds stood still in the dank, motionless air. The pungent, sticky air, even at this time of day, hung in the back of her throat.

Sandor’s horse nickered and stamped its feet behind her. A rush of birds flew from their nesting place in the swamp, appearing above the fog in a loud thunder of flapping. Her hand went to her dagger involuntarily. She looked across the marshland to the line of trees that tangled along the edge where she swore she saw something. 

_Nymeria_. 

Looking back at where Sandor still slept soundly, she hesitated for a moment, closing her eyes. Then she headed in the direction of the movement across the glades. 

—

Sandor woke to the increasingly familiar sensation of a warm body no longer at his side. She always rose before him. Blinking the sleep from his eyes, he sat up, looking around their campsite. Their normal morning fire wasn’t going, Arya’s pack and sword still lie next to their bedding, and both horses were tied to the tree. 

Panicked, he looked around with fervor, coming to his feet hastily. It wasn’t like her to leave her sword if she went off somewhere. He wondered if she went looking for a rabbit or pheasant for breakfast as he walked to the tree edge, looking out over the foggy marshlands. 

Not wanting to draw attention to himself if there were others out there with them, he called for her softly, annoyed. Looking down, he saw a single set of small boot prints in the damp ground and followed where they went with his eyes. Off into the swamp. 

_Seven fucking hells._

He walked back to the campsite and quickly packed up their belongings, sliding her sword into his belt and tacking up the horses. On foot, he pulled the horses along behind him, following the direction the footprints went. 

With the two horses he couldn’t move as fast as she was, so his only chance of catching her was if she stopped for the night. After ten hours of tracking her, meandering around the swamp lands and up into the woods, he stopped to make camp, resigning himself to getting an early start to find her the next day. He was getting worried about whether he would ever find her, but held out hope since he had been able to keep her trail throughout the day. 

More than anything though, he was livid that she would even run off like that to begin with. Her bullheadedness towards accomplishing a task had not changed in the near decade since he’d first traveled with her, and her complete disregard for those around her when trying to achieve that goal was infuriating. What was the fucking point in him coming with her if she was just going to abandon him in the middle of the Riverlands, _again_? 

His stomach twisted in a knot as he thought about her leaving him for dead. At least this time he wasn’t half fucking dead, he thought grimly. Chewing absently on a piece of now stale bread, he grew more concerned for her wellbeing. They had a complicated, unresolved relationship but that didn’t change the fact that he worried about whether she was safe and warm right now. All he wanted was to hold her close to him and never worry about wolves or Queens or brothers or trails or _anything_ ever again. He was growing possessive.

With a sigh he laid back on his pack and tried to get a few hours sleep before starting his journey again.

—

Arya had tracked the wolves for the better part of the day. Just when she was getting ready to give up, she noticed a patch of white fur along the bark of a pine tree. It was long fur, much longer than a regular wolf. Rubbing it between her fingers, she smiled and headed deeper into the forest. 

The trees were getting thicker and it was getting harder to see in the dimming light. Her ear twitched as she heard the snapping of a branch to her left. Grabbing the hilt of her dagger, she turned quickly to see what it was, but there was nothing there. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she looked around her, hearing the whisper of movement. Her heart thumped loudly in her ears as she tried to listen, her skin prickling.

Leaves rustled and twigs snapped as she heard the light thud of hundreds of footsteps. Suddenly she was surrounded by what she estimated was at least fifty wolves, staring at her but not advancing. It was unnerving the way they looked at her, eyes soft and somehow twinkling in the dim woods. They were everywhere, watching her from all sides, wolves of grey, black, brown, yellow, white… but no Nymeria. Their noses pulsated slightly as they sniffed at her, trying to determine if she was a threat. Slowly the ones behind her started to walk towards her as the ones in front of her turned away from her. A small grey wolf nudged her hand as it passed her and she ran her fingers over the wiry hair. Another and another and another, all heading away from her until she began walking with them. 

Her hands found their way into the fur on the backs of two wolves as she continued on with them through the dense forest, her heart still beating heavily in her chest, her breath ragged in anticipation. Skirting thickets and fallen trees, she followed them, a part of their pack now. They continued for some time through the woods until the trees began clearing out as the terrain got rockier. Arya looked around her, past the sea of wolves surrounding her to the rocky outcropping along the riverbank in front of her. As they neared the riverbank the wolves began dispersing with only a few continuing to lead her around the bend and to the entrance of a small cave. 

The little grey wolf had come back, nudging her hand towards the opening in the rocks. She swallowed the lump in her throat and took a deep breath. Scratching behind the grey wolf’s ears, she left them and walked towards the cave in the dim light.

—

With the light of a torch, Sandor had begun his search for the wolf girl in the early morning. Arya’s horse had pulled along behind him easily, but he was having increasing difficulty with his own mare, making it challenging to keep on the trail in the faint light. 

His breath clouded in front of him as he made his way through the thickening forest. He was certain he had lost her trail after a couple hours until he started noticing more and more wolves’ prints in the damp soil. The sun was low in the sky now, creating long shadows along the floor of the forest causing Sandor to pause every few hundred feet to check the tracks. The footprints were increasing in number before they diverged into two sets, going left and right, with a single set of foot prints going forward. 

_Arya_.

A sense of dread came over him; the wolves had surrounded her. Picking up the pace he followed her boot prints until the wolves’ prints overlapped hers again. Muttering under his breath, he mounted his horse and kicked her forward towards the path of the now easily discernible markings on the pine needle carpet below him. 

As the trees began to clear and rocks took their place, he noticed fewer and fewer tracks from the wolves until there were only the boot prints and a couple wolves’ prints. His horse was giving him trouble, clearly agitated by the presence of wolves. Sandor couldn’t tell if they were still around as he followed the tracks into the gravel of the riverbank. Dismounting from his mare, he tied them both tightly to one of the few trees along the riverbank, hoping they’d still be there when he got back, and drew his sword, continuing alone. 

He followed the low rock cliff for a few yards before it opened to the entrance to a cave. The gravel of the riverside did not make it easy for him to tell if she had gone in the cave or continued along, but he decided to check every option as he went. Using a flint to light the torch again, he lowered his head and stepped quietly through the cave. The gravel gave way to sandy dirt and sure enough, there were the paw prints of one very large wolf and one small pair of boots. Cold washed over him, his heart thumping in his ears as he pressed forward, hoping for the best. Until he heard sobs. 

Careful to avoid the rocks hanging low above his head, he quickened his pace through the cave until he came to an opening in the cave. A hole through the rock was letting in light from the ground above and it shone down in the misty air, spotlighting a large white beast lying motionless in front of him. Arya lay on the beast’s body, her small hands clenched in the wiry fur.

She was mumbling incoherent things into the fur her face was buried in as she choked on her cries, completely oblivious to his presence. A pained expression came across his face as he watched her small frame—tiny in comparison to the direwolf—shake with the sobs of grief. He stuck the torch into the sand next to him and started making his way to her.

“Arya…”

Bloodshot eyes looked up at him, her face raw from crying and wiping away the wetness for some time now. She just stared at him while he stood there, keeping his distance from the direwolf. Her brow crinkled and her lip trembled as another onslaught of tears threatened to stream down her face. 

“You found me… Nymeria… She’s… I couldn’t…”

Arya lowered her head to the animal, a pained, raw cry—almost a scream—coming from her, deceivingly loud for her small body. It was excruciating for him to see her like this. Coming over to her side he knelt behind her and put a hand on her back, hoping to give her some comfort in what was clearly the death of a part of herself. She collapsed back into him, her face buried in his chest as she grabbed onto his cloak. Wrapping his arms around her, he held her tightly as her body wracked from the sobs that came, one after the other.

It was the first time Sandor had seen a direwolf since the small pups the Stark girls had brought to King’s Landing with them. A twinge of sadness and remorse washed over him as he recalled the misunderstanding with that shit-head of a prince that got one of the wolves killed. He remembered the butcher’s boy and little Arya’s crying at the other end of their camp along the Kingsroad when she found out he’d been killed. The large beast in front of him did not seem to have suffered any damage that he could see, but was most definitely not breathing any longer. 

He held tightly her for a long time as her cries ebbed and flowed, stroking her hair and placing his lips to the top of her head a few times. He didn’t know what it was like to lose something so important to one’s self, he couldn’t even imagine it. What was the closest he’d come? His horse, Stranger? It was just a fucking horse, albeit a good one. His family, at the hands of his brother? No, even that he had expected at some point even though Gregor denied his involvement. The closest thing he had was the disappointment that he had let the girl he now held down when he’d lost against the Tarth bitch. But even then, nothing comparable. Arya wasn’t a part of him. 

With a sniffle, she pulled away and looked up at him, her face red and swollen. 

“You look like shit, wolf-girl,” he offered in a vain attempt to lighten the mood. He ran a large hand over her forehead, moving the hair from her bloodshot eyes.

Her lip trembled as she turned towards the dead animal and he regretted saying anything. She didn’t leave her place between his kneeling legs though, just turned and pulled his arms and cloak around her in a cocoon as she watched Nymeria, willing her to breath again.

“She waited for me,” she croaked quietly after a while, her voice raw. “I… I don’t know how, but she sent her pack for me—they led me to her, so I could say goodbye.” 

Not wanting to say the wrong thing, Sandor just sat there quietly, holding her close as she messed with the hem of his cloak absently. 

“She was the last one. Lady, Shaggy Dog, Grey Wind, Summer, Ghost… Robb, Rickon, Bran, Sansa, Jon… everyone is gone… I’m the last one…” she trailed off into sobs again, lunging forward onto the animal, laying across its body and squeezing with every last bit of energy she had. 

The cave was damp and echoed with the sound of her soft cries. The flame of the torch flickered gently in the draft, casting dancing shadows along the craggy rock wall. Sandor was a man of action, just like Arya was a woman of action, and in this moment he felt more helpless than ever. At the end of the day, he didn’t really care about the direwolf, but it was clearly important to her and the fact that he couldn’t fix it in any way tore at him. Knowing she tried her best to keep an emotional distance to anything, it was even more disconcerting to see her like this.

He figured the best thing he could do is just give her time to mourn her loss. So they sat there, him watching and holding her as she needed, and her sobbing and hugging onto the animal. After what felt like hours, Arya rose unsteadily to her feet. Standing with her, he watched her grab the torch and walk back to the body. 

“Are you sure?”

She leaned down and pet the wolf once more, pulling out a large chunk of hair and stuffing it in her pocket. Her bloodshot, grey eyes looked at him coldly as she squared her shoulders and brought the torch down to the body of the animal, lighting it on fire. Sandor quickly moved back from the flames as they began engulfing the beast, giving the fire an uncertain look. 

Arya led the way out of the cave with the small torch, tossing it into the river as they walked across the rocky beach to the horses. Meria nickered and swished her tail anxiously towards her owner as she walked up to her. Her small arms went around the horse’s chest, holding on and listening to its heart beat for a moment. 

With a sigh, she mounted her horse, turned to grab the wineskin on the back of her pack and took a deep drink. The sun was high in the sky now, beating down on them warmly as a breeze passed lightly. Birds bickered in the trees and the river babbled its story to them. A black smoke plume rose from the woods at the top of the rocks and the wolves she had traveled with began howling somewhere in the distance.

“Let’s go kill something.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Consider sharing your thoughts on the story so far, I would very much appreciate it! Thanks for reading!


	11. one

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor offers some wise words. They connect at an inn in Riverrun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: explicit sexual content in this chapter.

**ten.**

_I hear the sound, echoes beneath_  
_Angels and skylines meet_  
_And I'm straining to reach  
_ _The light on the surface, light on the other side_

_I feel the pages turning_  
_I see the candle burning down_  
_Before my eyes, before my wild eyes_  
_I feel you holding me, tighter I cannot see  
_ _When will we finally_

_Breathe, breathe, breathe  
_ **[ \- Breathe, Fleurie ](https://open.spotify.com/user/grafxnerd/playlist/6lfy4MDQinZ3AvxbrzlH0x) **

 

_—_

 

 

They had traveled south towards the Red Fork, hoping to follow it west to Riverrun and get back on River Road. But the trip that took them a week to make north was taking them almost a fortnight to travel south. Arya was traveling slow, not wanting to move more than a few miles each day, quietly going along until she just stopped, swung off her horse and started to walk in the direction of where they would camp for the night. 

The air had cool since they left the swampland, a welcome relief from the sticky, bug-infested air. Being away from the marshes, they had been lucky to get a few rabbits every couple days, but Arya hardly ate. Sandor would offer her food, she’d take a small bite, and hand it right back. Or sit staring at the fire and forget she had it in her hand. 

He tried to offer conversation, which he was never particularly good at, but he was willing to try anything to get some reaction out of her.

“Maybe there are still Tully’s at Riverrun. They’d take us in for the night. Hot meal and a hot bath,” he had mused one evening as they sat by the campfire. “Could be nice.”

She didn’t return the conversation. At night, she would go to sleep first, on one side of the fire, her back to him, hugging her knees to her chest. But inevitably Sandor would have to get up in the middle of the night and come sleep next to her, wiping her stray tears from her contorted face and holding her until she calmed down. 

During the day, she would set her mouth in a grim line, her eyes cold and dark, her body mechanical—a shell of a human. She didn’t acknowledge the nights when he’d hold her as she cried in her sleep. She never cried when she was awake, but didn’t make much effort to be any more than something barely existing. He felt helpless to ease her pain, and made note that this was a new sensation for him. 

The aching chasm of nothingness seemed infinite in her soul. It was a feeling that had shown itself before, when any member of her family died, when Gendry died, even briefly when she thought Sandor was dead—but it had always gone away after a day or two. She knew she had to go on, so she held on to hope, knowing that there were others to fight for, to look forward to.

What was the point of it anymore? She had been so let down, so many times, that any possibility of hope seemed like a pointless idea—she’d just get hurt again. Over the first week of their travel south, Arya considered whether she should just pack up and leave him. There was something budding between the two of them, something she had a hard time reciprocating after Nymeria’s death. And she wasn’t sure if she even wanted to explore it anymore. It would just be her fault when he was inevitably hurt or killed, and she couldn’t stand the idea of not having control over that. All of this, of course, she would never tell him.

She felt suffocated; suffocated by the lack of control, suffocated by his unusually kind brown eyes trying to offer her some bit of sympathy the best he could. Fucking hell, the _best_ he could—looking at her wasn’t changing anything! Looking at her didn’t bring back her dead family! Her apathy towards everything started turning into anger and annoyance as she ignored him best she could.

They sat around a campfire one evening, as the sun began to set, she noticed him watching her. He had tried to give her something to eat but she had refused, instead just twisting the patch of fur between her fingers as she stared into the fire. After an hour of silence, she couldn’t take it anymore.

“Would you quit staring at me!” She stood violently, her face flushing in anger. “Why do you keep staring at me? Why are you even here? What’s the point of you being here?!”

Arya stormed off into the woods with an angry huff. Sandor sat, stupefied by her sudden outburst. It had been days since she’d said a word to him, let alone any sort of actual conversation. Her small, angry frame disappeared into the woods ahead of him as he watched with remorse. With a grunt, he got to his feet, grabbed a wine skin, and began following after her slowly, giving her time to cool down. 

With a sigh, she sat down on a log along a small stream. The water tinkled gently over the rocks, bubbling in harmony with the chirping crickets around her. A few fireflies dotted the air in front of her, fading in and out quietly. She put her head in her hands, rubbing her face roughly as though that would get rid of all the bad feelings. With her elbows on her knees, she cradled her face and watched the brook, trying to calm her pounding heart. The blood pulsing in her ears made it impossible to hear anything but her own heart— _thud, thud, thud_. 

Lost in her own thoughts, she didn’t notice when Sandor sat down next to her, rocking the log slightly with his weight. She swallowed what felt like a rock in her throat and looked over at him, not removing her face from its place cradled in her hands; she was defeated. Popping the cork on the skin, he took a deep swig and settled his arms on his knees, looking out over the stream. 

“Sandor, I’m—”

“Things die, wolf-girl,” he interrupted. “You of all people should fucking know that. People die. Parts of us even die, and we still gotta go on.”

He took another swig of the wine and offered it to her. Quietly, with a look of gratitude, she took the skin and drank deeply. She could see he was trying to do more than just stare at her, but struggled with the right words.

“I died,” he looked over at her, his wide shoulders partially hiding the good side of his face. “You killed me.”

She swallowed roughly, quickly turning back to the stream as tears began welling up in her eyes. A jagged sigh escaped her lips as she closed her eyes tightly. 

“Sometimes death’s the best thing. Sometimes not. Still don’t have control over it,” he took the skin from her, another deep drink down his throat. 

“I thought about you a lot when I came back. Whether you were safe, whether you went off to Braavos to see that friend of yours, where you were during the Winter. Thought about our time together and tried to understand why it happened. Why would an old dog like me get stuck with a whiny whelp of a wolf like you?”

He took another gulp and handed the skin back to her. 

“Thought about helping you get your sword back. Your first kill. The stupid high-born songs you’d sing to yourself. Arguing over which piece of bread was bigger. How your laugh echoed in the Eyrie. We both wanted the other dead, but at the end, we were a pretty good team.”

Arya looked over at him, her eyes soft and wet. She was taken aback, not sure if she’d ever heard him speak this much or this personally. 

“I’m blathering like a damned fool. I guess what I’m trying to say is, those we care about die. But what doesn’t die is the memory of them. So take a moment to appreciate the good moments, however few they may be.”

He set a large hand on her thigh, squeezing gently, his brow furrowed deeply as though the words were hard to say.

“And create new ones while you still can.”

His words caught her off guard, tangling themselves deep in her heart. She set her hand atop his, noting the difference in size, and looked down at the ground. He was trying to offer himself to her, let her see she wasn’t alone in the world, that he had her back.

“Thank you,” she spoke softly, her voice cracking with emotion. 

She wiped her face roughly and quickly, sniffling and letting out a big sigh. Tipping the skin back, she drank deeply to the point where Sandor was impressed. 

_‘What do we say to the God of Death?’_

_‘Not today.’_

“Fuck. Just don’t go dying on me, you big idiot. I couldn’t handle that right now,” she laughed, a tinge of relief in her tone. 

“Not planning on it.” He put his arm around her and roughly pulled her to his side, kissing the top of her head. 

—

Since that evening along the stream, Arya had come back to her normal self which Sandor was glad to see. While they didn’t make up the time they lost when they were traveling slow, it had only taken them another day to reach the Red Fork, and one more until they came upon the little town outside Riverrun. He knew they were getting close when the pungent smell of burning wights returned to the air.

Unloading their horses at a stable, they went to the inn for the first hot meal and soft bed they’d had in weeks. Choosing their standard table at the back, they both sat down heavily and examined the room. Being outside of a major castle, the inn was much nicer than the last one they had stayed in along Riverroad. Lanterns lit the open space brightly, hanging over large wood tables. There was a hearth burning warmly near where they sat, with a bar and stairway on the other end, towards the rooms. Arya had overheard there were a few rooms with tubs and had insisted they upgrade. 

The fare was more traditional to the Riverlands than Kneeling Man was, a fish stew instead of rabbit. Sandor didn’t really care as long as it was warm and there was a lot of it. They ate in relative silence, only the slurps, scrapes and gulps conversing between them. 

They bantered back and forth about plans for a certain lioness over a few mugs of ale before calling it a night. How exactly they were going to get into Casterly Rock was still unknown to them, but Sandor said he remembered Tyrion once saying something about a secret entrance by boat for his whores. After a few more half-baked ideas, Arya stood to retrieve something from her saddle bag in the stables while Sandor headed to the room with the inn keep and a lot of hot water. 

By the time the inn keep had filled the large tub, Sandor thought it odd Arya hadn’t returned. Dread sunk like a rock in his stomach as he went in search of her. 

There was a commotion around the corner in the stables as he came out of the inn, a deep yell of a man. Rounding the corner, he saw Arya standing with her hair tangled around her bloody face, her chest rising and falling heavily as she wiped off her sword and sheathed it.

“Seven hells, what happened!” He ran up to her, hand on the hilt of his sword. 

The smell of alcohol wafted from between them and Sandor looked down at the dead man at her feet. She licked her lips, the tang of blood on her tongue for the first time in weeks. Looking up at him, her eyes were dark again in a way he hadn’t seen since their little knife play at the last inn. 

“Drunk. Tried to force himself on me,” she said curtly, stepping over the body and walking back to the inn. 

Sandor looked down at the corpse, her signature slice across his neck, still oozing thick blood. Couldn’t fault her technique, he thought as he turned to follow her. 

She was knelt by the tub, running her fingers along the hot water when he got back to the room. Shutting the door quietly, he locked the door and chewed on his lip as he watched her stand to remove her vambraces and gambeson, tossing them on a chair. The fire crackled softly, illuminating her face and the blood still on it. She toed off her boots before turning to him, her eyes still dark. 

A pressure built in his chest as he looked her over in the dim light, appreciating her resiliency towards loss and her never-ending need for blood. They were alike in so many ways, and so far from each other at the same time. Wanting anything to close that distance, he moved towards her and without words pulled her face to his in a deep, rough kiss. 

Her hand pushed against his chest for the briefest moment of trained resistance before she gave in, pressing her body to his. She couldn’t take it anymore. Despite knowing she’d be disappointed down the line, she remembered what he said about creating good memories, and pulled away from him with lust in her eyes. Silently, she turned from him and began to undress, her skin a chiaroscuro of light and dark in the fire’s glow. He watched in fascination and fervor, craving more in the dark room, unable to see more than the faintest glimpses as she stepped into the tub. 

The twist of desire and impatience aimed to take him down, but he stood watching her in the water as she dipped below to soak her hair, the water running off her in rivulets and he had never wanted to be a drop of water more than that moment. Running her hands over her hair she looked over her shoulder at him with a raised eyebrow.

“Water won’t stay warm long,” she said matter of factly, turning back to the water as she glided the soap over her arms.

He thought he might pass out. Never in his life had he been in the presence of a woman who wanted his company, let alone to this extent. Fumbling with his buckles and ties, he began undressing, his legs weak beneath him. With a ragged sigh, he let his trousers fall to the floor and moved to join her in the tub. 

As he approached the tub she turned to make room for him, looking him over as he watched her, a hint of embarrassment in his eyes. From what she could see, he had nothing to be embarrassed about, noting his large size seemed to extend to every part of his body. Her gaze held between his legs for a moment, and with a smirk she pushed to the back of the tub, inviting him in. 

Her heart pounded in her chest as he settled in front of her, her fingers tingling as she handed him the soap. Trying to focus, she scrubbed her hands over her face, removing the blood and the hesitation. She looked at the pink water on her hand and was surprised when his hand covered hers and pulled her towards him. Grasping the edge of the tub she steadied herself as he grabbed her face and pushed his lips to hers. Her hand ran along his rough beard, holding his head as he devoured her fiercely, his tongue grazing hers and sending shivers down her back. 

The water sloshed gently as he ran his hand along the length of her side and back up, coming around and cupping her face. He held onto her as though she might disappear at any moment, never more than a memory. His breath caught in his throat as he felt a hand meander down his chest, achingly slow. Lightly her thumb brushed over the scars she’d given him weeks ago and then her hand was going further still, under the water. 

Arya leaned in closer, her mouth going to his ear, her breathy sigh sending a rush of warmth to the pit of his stomach. Running her teeth along the lobe of his ear, she wrapped her fingers around him and gently stroked. Gripping the edge of the tub, his head fell back with an involuntary groan, his fingers white knuckled as she moved. 

A sharp sting on his neck brought him from his bliss as she bit at his neck roughly, squeezing him harder. _Crazy bitch._ He growled and noticed her smirk as she flicked her tongue over his lips before pressing hers to his. The water splashed out of the tub as Sandor pushed her away to stand, yanking her up with him. With a grunt he picked her naked body up, his arm on her back and another hooked behind her knees as he stepped out of the tub. 

Water dripped everywhere as he walked her to the bed and laid her down roughly. He didn’t care that the linens were getting soaked, he only cared about seeing and consuming as much of the woman looking darkly up at him as he could get. Littered with scars, she was perfect to him as she lay there panting in anticipation. She bit her lip and it undid him. Climbing onto the bed over top of her, cool drops of water dripping from his stomach to hers, he bent to kiss her. His hand ran up her side, along her hip and ribs, causing her to shudder under him, before grabbing her breast roughly. A finger ran along her nipple and she gasped into his mouth, pushing up against him. 

Tucking his hand under her arched back, Sandor pressed back against her, both of them trying to get closer to the other. It took everything he had to not take her right there, instead savoring the wild tension, slick and hot between them. His hand rounded her back, running up and down her scarred thigh before settling on the mound of hair between her legs. Arya stiffened at the touch and he worried this was the end of the dream. Tugging on his lip with her teeth, she grabbed his hand and guided him down between her legs. A ragged moan escaped her as his fingers ran along her, feeling her warmth.

Their hot breath mingled together as he moved his fingers, feeling her move in response. Her eyes were closed tightly, her head tossed to the side as she writhed in pleasure. Small, strong fingers wrapped themselves around his neck as his fingers slid inside her, every part of her body squeezing onto him. He hissed as her nails dug into the skin of his neck, dragging down as she twisted in agonizing gratification. Dark, wet hair tangled around her face as she arched her back, almost presenting her long, pale neck to him in invitation. She felt his rough beard against her skin, his rough fingers inside her, his weight holding her, his concentrated grunts as he put everything into her pleasure.

Behind her eyes were stars, opening them only revealed a spinning room as she spun closer and closer to the edge. She reached between their bodies and roughly wrapped her fingers around him, leaning up towards him and biting at his neck again. Closer, closer she came to that edge and removing his hand from inside her, she tilted her hips to guide him to her. There was the briefest moment of hesitation as they caught each other’s glances, both panting, damp and trembling. His lip twitched slightly and she her nails dug into his back as he slowly—excruciatingly slowly—pushed his hips into hers. Trying to get back to that edge, she moved her hips away and towards him again as he filled everything she had to give. 

His fingers fisted in the blankets on either side of her head as he moved, feeling a tightness and warmth he had never experienced. Fucking whores who’d done it a thousand times before was nothing compared to the unbridled sensations running through his whole body right now. He grabbed her hip, finding a rhythm that before long undid her. Pulsing, hot, wet—she was around him in every way, digging nails into his back, teeth into his neck as she groaned, letting go and holding on all the same. 

He could feel the waves taking her, pulling him along and he pushed his body against hers, pressing her to the bed. Wrapping his arms around her, he buried his face in her neck—sweat, fennel, blood, leather, mallow, pine—a million smells all at once becoming one: hers. He arched over her and looked down, watching as their two bodies met again and again, rougher and rougher. She nipped at his collarbone, gently at first before grabbing his shoulders and biting harder, drawing blood. With a growl, he thrust harder into her, causing her to moan loudly into his neck as she lapped up the blood. Grabbing his face, she pressed her lips to his, her tongue forcefully in his mouth. The proffered coppery taste was intoxicating and with two more thrusts he pulled out, groaning into her mouth as he came on her scarred belly. 

Heavy breaths were the only sound in the room other than the crackling fire as they both lie there, his weight holding her against the bed as their hearts calmed. His arms framed her head as he pulled his head from the crook of her neck, watching her trembling face. Brushing the still damp hair out of her eyes, he planted a kiss on her forehead. 

Her eyes fluttered open, looking up at him. Her fingers tenderly ran along the scars on his face, her brows furrowing in thought. She couldn’t explain why she was here, now, in his arms, and why she found it so hard to consider leaving when she knew this would only end in pain. Everything ended in pain. Remembering his words, she knew that didn’t mean there weren’t bright spots throughout. Resigning herself to what her gut was telling her, she sighed.

He watched as the darkness disappeared within her eyes and the life came back to her, a softness shared between them that he knew neither expected.

“That’s one way to make good memories,” she joked wryly after her breathing returned to normal. 

Standing to retrieve a cloth from the tub, he wiped himself off before tossing it to her. With her stomach cleaned off, she shifted up to the pillows, where he joined her, burying his face in her hair as he wrapped his arms around her.

“Here’s to many more along the road,” he mumbled as he pulled her closer, drifting off to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cold shower anyone?


	12. branded

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor and Arya continue their journey, with an unexpected threat along the way.

 

**eleven.branded**

 

 _Take me to church_  
_I'll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies_  
_I'll tell you my sins and you can sharpen your knife_  
_Offer me that deathless death_  
_Good God, let me give you my life_  
**[\- Take Me To Church, Hozier](https://open.spotify.com/user/grafxnerd/playlist/6lfy4MDQinZ3AvxbrzlH0x) **

 

—

The tingly sensation in his arm had disappeared a long time ago. Now, he just couldn’t feel his arm at all. He could see his fingers moving, but the sensation of movement was lost on him as he flexed his hand. It was a lot like the lack of sensation in the right side of his face—he could tell that there was movement or something touching it, but other than a vague pressure, he felt nothing. Except _that_ lack of sensation had horrible, hateful memories attached to it, and he would live with no sensation in his arm for the rest of his life if it meant she was the one cutting off the circulation.

Sandor was surprised she was still laying there with him, naked as their name day, under the scratchy wool blanket. She was usually up at least an hour before him, making work on a fire, or cleaning and sharpening her sword or any other number of things that he figured allowed her to keep her distance. But distance was something they did not share last night; no, they were as close as two people could get. 

His skin flushed and he felt a twitch between his legs at the thought. 

Arya was curled close to him, one arm wrapped around herself, the other tucked against him, her breath soft and warm on his chest as she slept. He wondered what the day would bring them after last night: would she run off, realizing her mistake, or would they get to enjoy a few more of these moments before they reached Casterly Rock? A sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach ached as he sighed, thinking about her list and the danger they were so blatantly going to walk towards. Literally walking into the lion’s den. 

He noticed she had a few freckles on her shoulder and wanted nothing more than to kiss each of them, resisting only because he knew it would wake her and end the moment. Instead, he turned his attentions further down, his hand drawing circles along her lower back, running over a menagerie of scars, before finding purpose and moving along her hip and resting along her side, somewhere between her thigh and backside. She didn’t have the shape of the women he’d been with in the brothels, dipping and curving in exaggerated manners. Her body was that of a fighter, strong and firm, but she was still very much a woman, however slight her hips or breasts curved. She was a complicated mess of contradictions: strong and soft, straight and curved, assertive and yielding, distant and close.

Absently, he ran his thumb along her hip and felt her tense before grabbing his wrist tightly. Her eyes were still closed, but she didn’t let go of him. Perhaps this _was_ a one time thing, he thought sourly. 

Arya was pulled from her sleep by the slightest sensation along her hip—one of the few places she was actually ticklish. Now she realized where she was and what had happened the night before. _Crap._ She had a decision to make: cut ties as soon as she could to avoid any additional pain, or take Sandor’s advice and give herself permission to create a few good memories. Opening her eyes, she was greeted with a warm chest covered in dark hair and scars, a few of which she’d given him. His chest was broad, muscular, powerful, like the rest of his body, she noted as her eyes traveled down. She chewed on her lip for a moment before leaning in to place a soft kiss on the little scars from her nails, listening to the hum of appreciation coming from his chest. Squeezing his wrist tighter, she ran her tongue over the little bumps before biting at them, hard but not hard enough to break skin. 

He hissed at the bite, before forcing his wrist out of her hand and grabbing her rear, pulling her closer. She had forgotten that he was, indeed, much stronger than her.

“Mornin’, wolf-girl,” he growled as he pulled her to his lips roughly. 

“Told you, ‘m not a girl,” she mumbled against his lips, nipping gently.

“Ain’t that the truth.”

His large hand greedily grabbed at her hip, digging his fingers into her fleshy backside. She seemed in good spirits, he thought, hoping she’d stay that way. Her mood, he was learning all over again, whipped around like a weathervane in a storm. He needed to take what she would give, while she would give it.

Arya leaned forward to kiss his neck giving him the perfect opportunity to kiss those freckles he noticed earlier. Before long they were a tangle of limbs, fighting for control over the other, a dance much like the night before. 

Teeth and nails, groans and fistfuls of hair. Arched backs and bruised lips. No darkness to hide behind in the morning light that filtered in through the curtained window. Deep in her, deeper than before, it felt impossible. She straddled him, hard grey eyes piercing through his soft brown ones, hips rolling, hands braced on his chest. Twists and pulls, her wrists in his hands above her head as he pressed her into the bed, greedily grabbing at her breast with his free hand. Hungry mouth replacing greedy hand, tongue and teeth along her nipple, breathy sighs and animal groans.

Eyes squeezed closed in concentration, shooting open in a loud moan, gripping him, over and over and over. Her wrists still held tight as she writhed, trapped and free all at once. Strong arms wrapped around her whole body, safe, solid, scarred. Lips finding a good ear, nipping and sighing, gooseflesh along his damp back, nails pulling it away, holding on like she’d never let go. Back arched in spasms with an incomprehensible slur of swears, wetness between them, running down her hip onto the linens. 

They both lay there panting into the others neck, the sweat on his brow falling to her shoulder. It was the post-coital warmth clouding his thoughts, he knew, but looking at her now, bruised lips and heaving chest, he’d do anything for her, forever.

—

When they’d finally got back on the road, Arya had opted to walk her horse for the first few miles much to Sandor’s amusement. The road turned to a muddy, rutted mess from melting snow as they headed into the hills from the Riverlands, forcing her back onto Meria sooner than she would have liked. They went on in silence for some time, swaying easily back and forth in their saddles, the slosh of mud their only conversation.

“Isn’t Clegane’s Keep near Casterly Rock?” Arya asked suddenly, startling him just as he was finding a rhythm in the horse’s steps.

“Aye,” he said quietly, a flood of unpleasant memories flashing before him.

“Who’s the Lord of the Keep? Your father’s dead, your brother isn’t there, you aren’t there.”

“S’posed to be me since Gregor was knighted.” He rolled his eyes. “Probably some bastard whelp,” he said sharply.

“Why don't you go back?” 

“What, to that shit heap of rocks and dog piss?” he asked incredulously, eyeing her.

“But it’s yours!”

“ _Was_ mine. Who know’s if it’s even still standing. Don’t much care,” Sandor said dismissively.

Arya supposed she understood that. She hadn’t tried to go back to Winterfell; for all she knew Sansa and Bran were still alive. But that was just a notion of hope that she didn’t need. 

After a beat, she snorted.

“ _Lord_ Clegane,” she poked.

“I’m about as much a Lord as you are a Lady these days,” he said wryly. 

“Two nobles, off to kill a want-to-be Queen,” she quipped, her hand waving in the air for effect.

He scoffed. “The only thing noble about my house was the shit running down the hill from Casterly Rock.” 

Sandor noticed a cart on the side of the road ahead that looked to have been ransacked. “And keep your voice down about that cunt.”

Arya followed his eyes and tensed, putting her hand on the decorated dagger at her hip as they approached. It was a farmer’s cart, toppled off the edge of the muddy road, radishes and carrots spilling into the muck. 

“There’s no horse, or people…” Arya wondered as they dismounted to investigate. They were getting closer and closer to Lannister land and any hostility could find its way to them.

“Down here,” Sandor called as he made his way down the muddy bank as gracefully as a man his size could on such a slippery slope. 

Arya tied the reins of the horses together, knowing Meria wouldn’t go anywhere. Making her way down the slope with much more grace and ease than Sandor had, she noted the grim expression on his face as he looked at the corpses. 

She came to stand next to him, looking down at the bodies of a farmer and his daughter. The girl couldn’t have been more than fourteen years old but her skirts were hiked up, her thighs bloodied from rape. The man had several stab wounds in his chest, and a slit across his throat.

But that wasn’t the most surprising thing, not to Sandor at least. Branded on their right cheek was the last sigil he had expected to see. Three angry dogs, of House Clegane, marked their cold flesh. 

Arya looked up at him, confused and worried. His face was dark, set in a deep furrow as he realized what awaited them the rest of the trip. 

“Those Lannister cunts back at the Kneeling Man. Word must’ve got back that I was out here. Said there was still a bounty on my head. Fucking crazy bitch,” he growled as he knelt to pull the girl’s skirts down over her legs. 

“You think Cersei’s trying to send a message?” Arya frowned. 

“Those are fucking dogs aren’t they? No mistaking who this is meant for,” he snapped, sourly. 

“Well, what do you suggest we do?” Arya watched him as he picked over the cart of overturned vegetables, grabbing as many as he could. 

“We can’t stay on the main road. Need to go through the mountains when we get to Golden Tooth.” He knelt down to pick through the farmer’s belongings, finding a few pieces of silver and pocketing it.

She blanched. Arya had heard rumors of getting to Casterly Rock: there was only one passable route from Riverrun—River Road—otherwise you were writing your death sentence. 

“It’s going to take us a month to get there!”

“More,” he corrected, bitterly. “We’ll have to go on foot. There aren’t trails for the horses.” 

Sandor didn’t relish telling her she’d have to give up her horse, knowing how important the mare was to her. He’d watched how she was able to handle her, speaking to her without words. Unfortunately he didn’t see a way for them to get to Casterly Rock without going through the mountains—they’d be walking targets if they continued the way they were going. As it was, he knew they’d likely see more of this before they made it to Golden Tooth. 

“We still have a week’s ride to Golden Tooth though. We should pack as many of these vegetables as we can carry and stay off the road.”

Arya was quiet, just staring up the hill where Meria stood, a twist in her lips. She knew Sandor was right, it was the only way, but it didn’t make it any easier. Especially so soon after losing Nymeria. A short, curt nod was all she responded with before kneeling to go through the bags and boxes on her side of the cart, looking for silver or anything else of value they could use or sell. 

—

They came across more bodies as they journeyed closer to Golden Tooth, each with the same 3-dogged brand on their right cheek. Some were men who’d been killed brutally, some hung from trees; some were women, almost always clearly raped before their throats were slit. After awhile Sandor couldn’t take it anymore, knowing these innocent people had died because of him, and forced them off the road, if for no other reason than to not have to see the mutilated bodies. 

The woods were dense with new brush growth in the warming West, creating muddy patches from the melting snow that made wet sucking noises as the horses stepped along. As they rode along one evening, looking for a quiet place to make camp, Arya stopped suddenly, putting her hand up signaling for silence. With practiced ease, she dismounted Meria quietly and tied her to a nearby tree. Sandor finally heard what she did: men, singing not to far away. 

_“And who are you, the proud lord said, that I must bow so low?”_

Sandor dismounted as well and tied his mare to the same tree, following behind Arya as she disappeared into the thick brush. 

_“Only a cat of a different coat, that's all the truth I know.”_

From behind the dense brush, Arya got a look at the men. Five Lannister soldiers. She looked over at Sandor, eyebrow raised.

_“In a coat of gold or a coat of red, a lion still has claws, And mine are long and sharp, my lord, as long and sharp as yours.”_

The men were singing together around the fire, wineskins in hand, arms around shoulders. Their guard was completely down, Arya quickly noted. Most had undone their sword belts and had them leaning against a tree more than an arms’ reach from where they sat, but they all had daggers at their hips still. And full armor. Arya weighed their options. 

_“And so he spoke, and so he spoke, that Lord of Castamere.”_

Sandor watched the men as they sang, remembering what it was like to just forget about the atrocious acts he’d just committed to innocent people because he was told to do so by someone more powerful than him. Thinking about the defiled women and slaughtered men they had come across over the last few days, Sandor began drawing his sword. 

_“But now the rains weep o'er his hall, with no one there to hear.”_

Arya took his signal and began to creep quietly around to the other side of their camp, her eyes locked on his, waiting for his move. It made more sense for him to barrel in, surprising them, while she picked them off quietly in the commotion. 

_“Yes now the rains weep o'er his hall, and not a soul to hear!”_

The men began laughing as they exaggerated the last words of the song, and Sandor struck. With a bellowing war cry, he barreled out of the brush, sword high, and brought it down and through the shoulder of one of the men before they could even comprehend what was happening. 

Scrambling to their feet, they drew swords and daggers, and began spreading out around the large man. 

“Fucking Hound! Queen’ll have your head!” One of the men spat at him and Sandor decided he’d be a worthy next target. 

“Not if I have yours first,” he growled back.

Arya drew her dagger and slipped out of the trees, felling one of the soldiers with a jab under his arm between plates of armor. Quickly she sliced open his throat as the men turned their attention towards her. 

“Little girls shouldn't play with swords, they’ll get _cut_ ,” one of the men threatened as he brought his sword up. 

In the time it took Arya to kill the first soldier, Sandor had taken the chance to cut down the man who had spat at him, but not before taking a cut to the leg. 

Two of the men encroached on Arya as she drew her sword, rolling it in her hand before holding it to her back, slowly withdrawing. She stared at them with icy arrogance, the slightest twist to her lips. 

“Look, the little bitch can’t even hold a sword. Ain’t doin’ you no good behind your back, sweetheart,” one of the soldiers sneered. Only one had a sword, she noted, the other held out a dagger, eyeing his sword on the other side of the camp ground. 

The soldier with the sword stepped towards her, coming down fast, but she ducked under him, twisting and landing a hit to the back of his calf. Her sword came back to its position behind her again, her right hand out to balance, and distract, her foes. She recalled Syrio’s admiration at her left-handed nature, it’s unique ability to throw her opponents off. 

He swung high again and she parried, knocking the sides of his sword a few times before pointing it at his face. She couldn’t help but have a little fun with him. The soldier with the dagger lunged at her but she dodged him, watching him fall to the ground past her and scramble to his feet. Her sword went behind her back again, waiting for the Lannister men to make the first move. 

The two soldiers still standing were flanking Arya, dagger drawn, sword raised, distracted by this small terror. Sandor looked past the two men to see her standing there, arms behind her back, calm, cool, and dark. He’d begun to enjoy seeing this look in her eye; watching her in such a raw form was an art performance he could understand and appreciate. 

Not taking too long to watch, he rose his sword and cut through the neck of the man with the dagger. The remaining soldier turned, surprised, and Arya took her chance straight on, walking up to him and swinging her sword across his neck, spraying blood all over her and the ground as he fell. 

She wiped her sword on the exposed fabric of the dead man’s body, and sheathed it, looking up at Sandor, blood-lust written on her face. Sandor couldn't help it, he knew it was wrong to be aroused by the bloodshed, but watching her fight with such precision and satisfaction seemed to unhinge him every time. 

He pushed her against the tree she stood in front of, grabbing her face and pressing his lips to hers roughly, tasting the blood of the slain men on her lips. Arya moaned into his mouth, pressing back with as much force, grasping at the hair at the back of his neck. The weight of his body pressed hard against her as she arched into him, his uninjured thigh pushing between her legs. 

The feeling was familiar to her, but in her clouded mind she couldn’t figure out why. All she could focus on was the rough beard against her face, the hand holding her head, the other on her waist as it fumbled with her layers, intent on getting beneath them. It was much warmer than the last time she had pressed her lips to another’s in the rush of victory, she remembered. Her head cleared as she gasped into Sandor’s mouth. She was reminded of what happened the last time she let herself get comfortable like this, what it inevitably led to.

_Gendry…_

Arya pushed against Sandor’s chest, pulling her lips from his. With her eyes down, she stepped from his embrace and walked towards the other side of the Lannister camp.

“I’ll get the horses…” She walked off into the brush to retrieve their steeds. 

Sandor sighed heavily, clearly frustrated. He begrudgingly hefted the bodies into a pile, dug through their boots for silver and gathered their wineskins. He made himself comfortable by their fire, dressing his wound and chewing on the jerky found in one of their packs. 

Arya returned, tying their horses up near the Lannister horses. It looked like they would have seven horses to sell in Golden Tooth. She braced her shoulders and turned towards the soldiers’ things, ignoring Sandor who was watching her prudently as he tipped a wine skin back, deeply. 

“Girl…” 

He watched her as she went through the soldiers’ packs, pulling out first aid materials and setting them to the side to pack them in her bag. She ignored him. 

“Look. You don’t have to tell me anything. But I’m not going to play this little game with you.”

Arya sat down across from him with a wineskin, intently staring into the fire, as her thoughts drifted to Gendry. Remembered their first kiss, how awkward it was. Remembered the first time they’d made love, the first time she had ever made love. Remembered how he held her afterwards, tender and open and perfect in every way. Remembered how they’d held hands when they woke up together, trying to have some semblance of normalcy in the dead hell that awaited them outside the caves. Remembered the night atop the rock ledge. Remembered the smell as the dragon flew off, screeching. Remembered being unable to even go look, because she knew there was nothing there for her anymore. Remembered the silence and darkness.

“It’s nothing,” she said quietly.

“That’s a woman’s answer, don’t do that,” he said roughly before tipping his skin back again. If she wasn’t going to be any company to him, the wine would warm him. 

She scrubbed her hands over her face. How could she tell him without it sounding like she was a whining little girl who didn’t want to get hurt anymore?

_“So take a moment to appreciate the good moments, however few they may be. And create new ones while you still can.”_

She sighed. “Just some unpleasant memories, is all.”

It was going to be difficult for her to get past those memories, but this trip was going to be painful if she couldn’t either get over them or bury them enough that they didn’t become a constant hindrance. As much as she didn’t want to admit it to herself, she needed Sandor’s help and he seemed more than willing to offer it.

He didn’t respond, instead tipping the skin back again, finishing it off. A sound of disapproval came from him as he shook the skin and tossed it aside bitterly. The wine was getting to him, and that was as much as he cared to hear about whatever was ailing her right now. He’d put up his own defenses after seeing so many innocent people slain along River Road because of him, and he knew there were more on the road they were avoiding. 

Arya watched him with cool, guarded eyes, chewing on her lip. Another long drag of her own wine skin and she stood, grabbing a blanket from the packs sitting next to her and walked over to stand between Sandor and the flames. She held the skin out to him, a peace offering of sorts. 

He took a moment to look her over before accepting her offer. Brown boots decorated with straps and brass buckles, scuffed from years of use, were caked in mud from the day’s travels, hiding coins and daggers within their sides. Warm wool trousers wrapped her thin legs, baggy in the knee from riding all day. Her linen tunic hung to her mid-thigh and he couldn’t help but think of her only wearing that in the rooms they’d shared. Over that lay the chainmail he insisted she wear and then her grey wool undercoat, with her leather gambeson hugging tightly over that. A thin wool cloak hung off her shoulders, hiding behind it her sword and Valyrian dagger along the belt on her hips. 

She’d started wearing her hair down, only half pulled back on each side, instead of pinned back like when they first began their trip. He preferred it this way, liking the way it laid along her shoulders with a few bangs framing her face. The scar on her jaw looked like it was going to be there for quite some time, probably no thanks to his stitching job. Her jaw was tense, her lips in a tight line but her eyes were warm. 

Sandor reached up and took the skin, his hand resting on her fingers for a brief moment. He took a deep drink as she sat down next to him with a sigh, their legs touching. He watched as she settled the blanket over their legs, fussing with it’s placement for a moment before taking the skin from him. 

With a healthy drink, she handed it back to him and leaned against his side. He put his arm around her and kissed the top of her head as she nuzzled closer. They sat watching the fire, enjoying the moment before they had to decide who would do first watch.

_Like a fucking weathervane._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wonder how far Sandor's patience will go with Arya's broken soul? Especially with the weight of these deaths on his hands. Thanks for reading, let me know what you think! :)


	13. content

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya finds some closure. Sandor splurges.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Explicit sexual content in this chapter.

**twelve.content.**

 

 _'Cause in the madness there is a perfection  
_ _Where do you end, where do I begin?  
_ _You were my broken imperfect reflection  
_ _The kiss on my skin_

 _And I know, that if we are_  
_Shut out of paradise, for all it was  
_ _It was never for you and I  
_ _Heaven is here in the wreckage  
_ _All that is broken, but all that is true  
_ _I know I found it in my love for you_

**[ \- Shut Out of Paradise, SLO ](https://open.spotify.com/user/grafxnerd/playlist/6lfy4MDQinZ3AvxbrzlH0x) **

 

_—_

 

Traveling with five horses in tow through dense woods was a pain in the ass, plain and simple, Sandor had kept grumbling to himself. Unfortunately they still needed to stay off the road; just because _some_ Lannister soldiers were dead, didn’t mean all of them were. His mood had stayed pretty sour since the first mutilated bodies they saw almost a week ago, and although they hadn’t encountered any more, he knew they dotted the road.

As they neared Golden Tooth however, the terrain got rockier and they had no choice but to get back on the River Road in order to get to the small village outside the keep. They could see the castle in the distance from a day’s ride away, guarding the mountain pass that would easily get them to Casterly Rock. The mountains were ragged, capped in snow that ran into misty valleys, still thawing from Winter.

Both Arya and Sandor had kept pretty quiet the last few days, lost in their own thoughts. Sandor felt ashamed that he had caused the death of so many innocent people simply for walking away from a long-dead cunt of a King. It felt like a whole other lifetime ago, before bigger threats came about and dragons flew over Westeros. He was also worried about what would await them at the Rock if they were dealing with such disturbing displays of warning now. And he really worried about Arya. He could see himself in her, the coping mechanisms she used to push off situations she didn’t want to deal with, or bringing old memories into new circumstances instead of letting them be their own. He knew he offered to come with her, he had his own business to take care of, but he was starting to feel a bit used—he wondered if this was how whores felt, without the coin in his pocket. 

Sandor shook his head to himself, that wasn’t fair—she was going through something, he could tell, and perhaps if he could find a way to connect with her, they could move past it. Of course, the notion of connecting with another person was foreign to him, but if it was going to be anyone, he figured she’d be it.

Arya knew she needed to separate the situation she was in now from her past memories—Sandor was not Gendry, Spring was not Winter, survival wasn’t the only option anymore. But the lack of closure when her whole encampment went up in flames and the constant reminders of those few good memories in comparison to now were deepening the trench in her heart, ripping it apart. There was nothing she could do, and that was perhaps the worst part. Nothing she could do except sift through the _emotions_ of it all, which she wasn’t very good at. Grief and loss were normal for her, yet there wasn’t anything to direct her anger to now. The Night King was long gone, the wights and Walkers, no one to add to her list. 

Neither of them slept well the night before they arrived in Golden Tooth, both anxious about being back around people who might recognize them. Sandor kept the hood of his cloak pulled low over his face as they arrived at the stable to sell the horses. 

Arya slid from her saddle, looking around the small town outside the keep. It was situated on a steep hill that led up to the gate of the pass through the mountains, small, low stone buildings lining the street including an inn, a small sept, a brothel, an open air market and the stables. Sandor had agreed to just board Meria for the time being so Arya could say goodbye in her own time. 

“I have some business at the sept I need to take care of, I’ll meet you at the inn?”

Sandor eyed her curiously for a moment before nodding and turning to the stable master. 

The streets were muddy and there was a chill to the air from being so close to the mountains. Arya pulled her cloak around her tightly, her hood down low; they’d definitely have to get warmer clothes for the next part of their journey. 

Entering the sept, she picked up a candle and walked towards the darkest corner. The Father, The Mother, The Maiden, The Crone, The Warrior and even The Smith were well lit carved stone figures around the room, with patrons saying their prayers silently, adding candles to the alters. Arya only had one god, the god of Death, and The Stranger was not one that was often prayed to. Most people were afraid of The Stranger, but Arya was not. She knew the power of The Stranger, the most powerful of them all, everything ending here. She was a servant.

She walked slowly, lighting her candle at The Warrior’s alter first before moving towards the dark corner. The Stranger was turned from the rest of the Seven, it’s back to the room, thus it’s alter was on the other side. Arya looked up at it, trying to see any detail in it’s carving, but with such low light, it was impossible. Or perhaps, she thought, there was nothing to see.

Tipping the candle so that wax fell to the alter, she pressed the candle into it and closed her eyes. Memories of Winter began flashing in her mind: her last memories of seeing Jon, Bran and Sansa, running from Winterfell in the chaos of the wight attack, surviving alone for months, finding Gendry and surviving with his group, the attack on top of the hill, surviving alone again for another year. What she really thought about though was her time with Gendry, what it had meant to her and what it meant now. Those had been wonderful memories—as wonderful as they could be given the circumstances they faced, and Sandor was right: those were the ones she remembered best. 

Arya opened her eyes and watched the flicker of the candle in the draft of the sept. She needed to move on and appreciate the moments she was currently experiencing. Especially considering what they were heading towards. 

The candle flickered rapidly as she walked away, extinguishing as she shut the door.

 

—

 

Arya met Sandor at the inn a few doors down, sitting down next to him and nodding at the inn keep as a horn of ale was placed in front of her. He’d chosen their typical dark booth, which was especially important the closer they got to Casterly Rock.

“Are we all settled up with the horses?” She took a long drink of the sour ale, some of it dribbling down her chin. 

Sandor watched her out of the corner of his eye, the smallest hint of a smile crossing his otherwise stoic face. 

“Aye. Your mare is safe and sound, and we’ve got plenty of coin for a good supply run. Splurged a little too,” he admitted, as sheepishly as a man like him could be. 

Arya raised her eyebrow in question as she finished off the horn. She flagged down the inn keep for another round.

“It’ll be our last night in a real bed in a long time,” he clarified before taking the fresh mug to his lips. “It ain’t the Red Keep or anything, but I think you’ll like it.” He refused to look at her, clearly uncomfortable with the admission of doing something for someone else’s happiness.

“Sandor Clegane. Enjoying the lap of luxury like the dog you are,” she elbowed him in the side, eliciting a small grunt of disapproval from him. 

“Keep it up and I’ll lock you out,” he threatened, only half serious. 

She squeezed his leg under the table, a grin on her face. Sandor jerked away slightly, not expecting such a personal touch in public, but she didn’t move her hand. 

With her free hand, she casually drank her ale, observing the patrons of the inn. It wasn’t a bad inn, not as nice as some, but definitely a lot better than most. Perhaps because it was the last real stop before Casterly Rock, they aimed to offer decent comforts for the weary traveler coming from Riverrun. She ran her thumb along his outer thigh, completely focused on the room in front of her. A small growl came from Sandor as he grabbed his horn and tipped it back, not stopping until he was finished. 

As he finished, she ran her hand along the inside of his thigh, brushing his cock in passing. Sandor sucked in a breath, and with it the remainder of his ale, coughing suddenly as he slammed his cup down. Nostrils flared, he turned to her, perturbed, but aroused she noted, having not removed her hand. Arya shot him a devious grin before taking another drink of her ale, her fingers wrapping around him through the fabric of his trousers. 

His hand gripped the mug he held almost to the point of cracking it. Arya flagged down the inn keep for another round, finishing off her ale before he arrived. As the man poured them a fresh mug, her hand kept at it’s work, squeezing and moving back and forth slowly. Sandor growled and the inn keep looked at him quizzically. 

“Don’t mind him. Long trip,” she offered, rolling her eyes innocently. 

“Girl…” he muttered under his breath after the inn keep had walked away. 

Arya took a drink of the fresh mug before turning to him, squeezing him firmly in her hand.

“Not. A. Girl,” she emphasized each word with a slow pump. 

Sandor took a deep breath, squared his shoulders and downed half the mug in his hand. 

“Do not make me bend you over this table in front of everyone. Then we really won’t make it to the Rock,” he threatened, turning his whole body to watch her.

With a final squeeze, she relented her torment, bringing her hand back above the table. “What would the public think? A dog mounting a wolf? Tsk tsk,” she joked warmly, the ale clearly working its way through her system.

 

— 

 

Wanting to enjoy themselves before they disappeared into the mountains and certain death, they ordered a flagon of wine to take with them back to the room. While Arya was not completely inebriated, she had to steady herself slightly on the stairs, much to Sandor’s amusement. 

He unlocked the door and stepped out of the way so she could go in first. Arya let out a quiet gasp as he shut the door behind them. 

The room was warm, lit by the fire in the large hearth at the middle of the room that threw dancing shadows onto the walls. On either side of the hearth, there was a window decorated with heavy green velvet curtains. Their belongings sat in a corner under the table that held a wash basin and polished metal mirror that shone brightly in the warm light. 

Sandor sat the wine down on the table next to two wooden cups and watched anxiously as she examined the rest of the room. The bed was larger than what they were used to and was covered in a layer of furs and linens that she ran her fingers along as she turned around to look at the rest of the room. In front of the hearth there were a few pillows on top of several furs laid over the wood floors. 

“This is too much,” she worried, knowing their funds were limited and needed to be used for preparing for their journey through the mountains. 

“There were several Gold Dragons in the Lannister packs,” he confessed with a small smirk. 

Arya sat on the edge of the bed, running her hands along the furs once more before toeing off her boots and letting her feet sink into the warm furs on the floor. She sighed with a contentment she hadn’t felt in a long time and began taking her outer layers off. The ale was still clouding her judgement, so she stared intently at him as she undid the strings of her trousers and slipped them off as well.

Clad in only her tunic and small clothes, she grabbed the flagon and cups, tiptoeing on the furs and setting herself down on them. Pouring wine into both of the cups, she looked up expectantly.

“You’re not going to bring those muddy boots over here are you?” she asked, pulling him from his daze. 

Sandor quickly discarded of his cloak, brigandine, mail and boots, settling on the furs across from her, accepting her cup of wine. Her legs were to her side, her thighs soft and scarred, glowing in the light, settling her weight on one hand as she held the other up, in a toast. He mirrored her, eyebrow raised. 

“Here’s to not getting eaten by a lion in the Westerlands,” she offered dryly, her eyes sparkling as she clinked against his cup. 

He scoffed, but returned the gesture. They drank the first cup quickly, and she poured them more. 

Arya settled her gaze on the fire, Sandor settled his on her. There was a comfortable silence between them in the warm, dim room. He noticed she was a bit more relaxed since her errand but he didn’t dare ask what she had been up to and potentially ruin the moment. 

After a beat, she turned to him.

“Remember when you said you wanted to join the Second Sons? In Essos?” 

“Was a stupid idea,” he grumbled. 

“Do you think there’s something like that to the West?”

“You mean in Westeros? Just sell swords here.” 

She shook her head, pouring them another cup. “No, West of Westeros.”

“There isn’t anything West of Westeros,” he said matter-of-factly. 

“There has to be something, the world can’t just fall off a cliff into nothing,” she countered. “I’ve always wondered what’s West of here.”

Arya shifted to lay on her side, her head propped up by her hand. She fingered the lip of her cup. 

“When everything is done, I want to go West. Finally figure out what’s out there,” she said wistfully. 

Sandor looked her over, the alcohol influencing his motives as his eyes ran down her side, pausing at her hip before continuing down her legs. He could sense she was uncomfortable and looked back at her face, which was twisted in contemplation. 

“Would you want to go West with me?” Arya was quiet, as though she thought the idea of it all was silly and was just waiting for him to laugh at her. 

He chewed on his lip as he watched her; she looked small now, vulnerable and soft. Her fingers ran along the edge of her cup a bit too quickly, back and forth, clearly anxious about his answer. Did she actually want him around past this mission? 

“Would be a shame if you got eaten by some monster on the other side of the Sunset Sea after finishing your list,” he reached for the wine, refilling his cup and offering to refill hers. 

“Is that a yes, then?” She looked at him expectantly.

“Aye, that’s a yes,” Sandor said firmly, still holding out the flagon towards her cup.

The relief on her face was evident as she held out her cup. Quickly she drank it as she sat up and crawled closer to him, nodding towards his cup. Sandor finished it off and she placed her hand over his, setting the cup down, her small fingers around his. For a moment, Arya just looked at him, knelt close, her knees against the front of his crossed legs. 

Her steely grey eyes were soft, warm with the light of the fire and with appreciation. She wanted to show her appreciation, and words weren’t her way. He had made so many efforts to get this far with her, dealing with her emotional outbursts and issues in stride, and to think he wanted to continue with her after this was all over made her cold heart swell. She looked down to his hand as it found its way to her leg, caressing gently over the marred skin. 

Arya lifted from her seated position on her legs and leaned close to him, her left hand coming up to timidly run along the scarred side of his face. Sandor’s hand came up quickly and grabbed hers, his eyes habitually narrowing. There was no ill-intent in her eyes, only what he’d describe as softness. She gently but firmly moved her hand back to his cheek, his hand still on top of hers. He closed his eyes tightly, willing himself to relax into her touch. 

“Sandor…” Arya’s voice was quiet, husky from the ale and wine.

Hearing her say his name the way she did gave him a chill and warmed him at the same time. Opening his eyes, he saw her hungry eyes waiting for him. Letting her keep her hand where it was on his face, he grabbed her face with both hands and crushed his lips to hers with a growl.Arya moved to straddle him, pressing her body to his with the help of one of his hands against her lower back. 

The hand moved down to her ass, his fingers flexing in the soft flesh, his other deep in the warm, soft tangle of her hair. He pulled her against him, thinking they’d never get close enough, wanting to protect her, keep her warm and safe, always. 

Arya gasped with pleasure as his hand reached further around her ass, sliding into her small clothes and running along the wet folds of her sex. She found herself grinding back into his touch as she nipped at his lip and he slid two fingers inside her. The desire to have him fill every space she had overwhelmed her; she wanted him inside and out, taking her from the world. She pulled from his lips, her fingers running along his beard before settling on his chest as she rocked on his fingers, watching him with heady lust. 

She put her other hand down the front of her small clothes, meeting the fingers inside her and ran her finger along the nub above them. Sandor was trapped in her stare as she rode his fingers and pleasured herself, her breaths getting shallower and her movements quicker. With a sharp intake of air, she came, squeezing around his fingers over and over, not taking her eyes off his as she moaned softly. _I trust you_ , her eyes said.

Before she could recover, he rolled her onto her back and pressed her into the furs with his weight, meeting her hungry lips with his own. Her hands slid under his tunic, running along the hair on his taut stomach and up to his wide chest, pulling it over his head. He reached down and stroked the scar on her cheek, then her hair, tenderly tucking it behind her ear. 

The room was warm and smelled of leather and wood. It felt like the only place that existed for them right now. There were no thoughts of lions or lists or mountains or death, only a connection they could both see between them. Two killers with brutal childhoods, brought together once to survive during Summer, and now again years later in Spring. It felt divine, but neither of them would admit that. All either of them wanted right now was to claim the other as theirs, through actions, not words. 

Arya lifted her tunic over her head, tossing it to the side. His eyes devoured her, his hand grabbing her naked hip and running his thumb along the scars on her abdomen before coming up to her breast, small in his hand but warm and soft. She pulled him close, her nails digging into his back as she nipped and suckled at his neck. A tangle of limbs and fabric separated them briefly as the rest of their clothes came off, their tingling skin pressing against the other’s. 

When she was under him, he was the only thing in the world, his broad shoulders, solid chest and strong body pressing her against the furs, grounding her. Her legs moved from their pinned place under him, wrapping around him and with a roll of her hips he slid in with a groan. He shuddered, his breath warm and smelling of wine against her cheek. His rough beard tickled her nose as he nuzzled her, savoring the tight warmth around him. 

His arms wrapped around her shoulders, holding her close as she moved her legs higher up his, pushing him deeper inside her. He moved languidly, in no rush to end the moment, wanting to experience the sensations with everything he had before they went off into the mountains and off to certain death at Casterly Rock. 

Arya grabbed at his hips, pushing herself into him and nipping at his ear, impatient.

“Fuck me,” she demanded, running her tongue along his earlobe. 

Sandor throbbed at her command, but was resolute in his slowness. She ran her nails down his back roughly, surely leaving long, angry red lines. Her hips bucked into his again, her legs wrapping tighter around him. He growled, only a slight annoyance in his tone, as he grabbed her arms and held them against the floor above her head. 

She smirked at him darkly as her body stretched out underneath him, her legs still wrapped around him as he kept his movements slow. He watched her body writhe beneath him, her back arched, her breasts soft with nipples erect in arousal, watched where their bodies connected, where he became a part of her. His free hand ran over her body, palming her breast, her hip, pulling her closer to him. 

He savored every touch, every sensation and she gave in, slowing her movements, finding a synchronicity with him. She moaned as he found her neck, kissing gently at first before nipping and sucking on the tender skin, marking her. _Mine_. 

Her body was pulled tight like a bow string, her wrists held high by his hands, her legs wrapped around his waist. He began quickening his pace, watching her small breasts move up and down, her cheeks flushed in the dim light of the fire. The primal instinct in him took over and he sat back on his haunches, pulling her hips to him, her body arching up with only her feet and shoulders on the furs.

“Yes…” she moaned, grasping the furs in clenched fists. 

He held her hips firmly, his fingers digging into her flesh as he pulled her into his thrusts. Their breath grew ragged as his pace quickened. He watched as her body came to meet his, as he disappeared inside her, warm, tight, wet…

“Fuck—Arya!” he cursed as he pulled out, his seed spilling on her belly. 

She grabbed his arm, pulling him down on her and kissed him roughly, her tongue flicking into his mouth as her hand grasped the back of his neck. With a contented sigh, he rolled to the side, laying next to her, kissing her forehead. Arya felt around for a piece of clothing and cleaned herself off. 

They laid, spooning, in front of the fire as their breaths calmed. Sandor absently ran his fingers over a scar on her hip. 

“Did you mean it?”

He rose his good eyebrow, looking down at her. “Mean what?”

“Coming with me, West?” She looked up at him, the softness in her eyes unlike anything he’d seen in her before. 

He pulled her close, nuzzling the mark he left on her neck. 

“Aye.” 

Arya smiled and closed her eyes. She knew they should move to the bed before they fell asleep on the floor, but she didn’t want to disrupt this moment. She was comfortable, content, perhaps even happy. 

And that scared her.


	14. wolf in the sky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya and Sandor begin their trek through the mountains. Arya tells a story.

**thirteen.wolf in the sky**

 

 _Oh, all these minutes passing, sick of feeling used  
_ _If you wanna break these walls down, you’re gonna get bruised  
_ _And now my neck is open wide, begging for a fist around it  
_ _Already choking on my pride, so there's no use crying about it_

[ **\- Castle, Halsey** ](https://open.spotify.com/user/grafxnerd/playlist/6lfy4MDQinZ3AvxbrzlH0x)

 

_—_

 

 

“You mean to tell me _ten_ of our men are dead because of this _dog?”_ she seethed through clenched teeth, her jeweled fingers wrapped tightly around the ornate glass cup. 

“Yes, your Grace,” the commander replied, stoic and not bristled by her anger. He held his hands behind his straight back, awaiting further instruction. 

Frantically, as though the wine would calm her, Cersei drank the warm red liquid, pouring herself another glass as she looked out over the bay towards Lannisport. When Winter had reached King’s Landing, she had fled with those who were still loyal to the Lannister name—most had betrayed her at that point—leaving the people of the city to their own fate. The Dragon Queen—Cersei scoffed to herself, _Queen_ —had taken control of the city shortly after, protecting the people with her two remaining dragons. Cersei took pleasure in knowing this Night King had taken one of her _children_ , wanting her to feel every bit of sorrow possible, if for no other reason than to put her own pain on someone else.

As though they were sheep, the dragons had burnt the Greyjoy fleet, and with it the Golden Company he had sailed back with. The surviving ship she had had sailed to Casterly Rock, where it had been abandoned by the Targaryen forces in the upcoming war with the dead. The Rock was impregnable, and far west, and Cersei had not worried about her safety. Or her unborn child’s. 

“There’s more from our lookouts, your Grace,” the man offered. 

She turned to him, eyebrows raised impatiently. 

“He was seen in Golden Tooth, your Grace. With a young woman.”

“Get to your point, Ser Derrick,” she growled, pacing in front of the window.

“Our scouts believe that it is Arya Stark, your Grace.”

Cersei had assumed the whelp had been dead since the beheading of her father. The name Stark had not been uttered within her walls since the redheaded girl had fled after the death of her eldest son. _Joffrey…_

She wondered what the little bitch could possibly be doing over here, especially in the company of that dog. The only possible explanation she could see was that with Winter over, the Stark girl was seeking revenge for the atrocities against her family. She recalled that coward Hound threatening his brother before the meeting at the dragon pits all those years ago, and cursed herself for not having him seized right then. 

“Find them. Bring them to me. Alive. I want Lannister soldiers _covering_ the Westerlands in search of them both,” she ordered, not turning from the window. 

“Yes, your Grace.” 

Ser Derrick dismissed himself, stepping past the large man who had stood silently by the door, his hand on the hilt of his sword, as always. There weren’t many things that disturbed the commander—after all he had ordered his men to mutilate innocent people to send a message—but this giant, silent sentinel truly disturbed him.

Cersei finished the glass of wine and turned to her hand maiden who had reentered.  

“Call for my daughter.”

 

—

 

Arya made her way to the stable with trepidation, not looking forward to what she had to do. She’d had the mare for only about a year but it felt like a lifetime, and the thought of giving her up so soon was painful. The stable smelled of hay and manure, an earthy, damp smell she could taste in the back of her mouth. 

The stable boy nodded to her as he passed with a saddle in hand, and she returned the nod curtly. She walked down the aisle of stalls, seeing the horses they’d brought in, Sandor’s horse, and then Meria. The mare was leaning over the gate, nickering as she approached, driving the knife deeper into Arya’s heart. 

“Hey girl,” Arya whispered, her voice cracking as she rubbed the horse’s muzzle with one hand. It was like peach fuzz, twitching to her touch. 

The mare watched her, Arya’s soul reflected in her big, dark eyes under thick, straight lashes. She held out her other hand with a bit of grain, letting the horse lip at her palm as she ate it, leaving behind sticky, warm saliva that she wiped on her pant leg. 

Arya drew the horse close, holding it’s neck over the gate, listening to its breath, to its strong heart beat. The beast’s skin quivered under her touch, warm and coarse against her cold fingers. She was large and strong, the mass of her chest wider than Arya could hug if she tried. She couldn’t help but think of Sandor—large, strong and covered with seemingly just as much hair. Arya closed her eyes, smiling to herself as she nuzzled against the mare’s neck. 

She had an idea and pulled away quickly, looking for the stable boy. Fingering a coin in her pocket, she patted Meria before turning to find him. 

 

—

 

They stood over the pile of things on the floor in front of them, quite unsure of how to manage it all. Smoked meats, vegetables, bread, a couple of wineskins filled with wine, their water skins, several additional layers to keep them warmer including two thick wool blankets.

“Is this too much?” Arya pondered, looking through the clothes.

“Not enough wine,” Sandor grumbled, crossing his arms. 

“We can’t carry anymore,” she protested.

“When we’re starved and freezing our asses off, you’ll be whining we didn’t bring enough,” he lectured as he bent to pack the items into one of the bags they’d carry. 

“Just don’t drink all the wine in the first night,” she shot him a sideways glance as she bent down to help him pack. 

They packed in silence for awhile, intent on getting up before dawn to leave town. It would be easier to avoid curious glances from the townsfolk, whom they’d already started to get paranoid about. 

“I didn’t say goodbye to Meria,” Arya admitted after awhile. 

“You’d better before we leave tomorrow morning,” Sandor looked over at her, watching as she packed the curious bag he’d seen a month prior. He hadn’t seen her open it once in their travels.

“I’ll see her again. I’m having her taken to Lannisport, boarded there until we’re done,” she continued, pausing in her packing to look up at him. 

“Is that the best use of our money?” 

“She’s my only family, I can’t just give up on her,” she said quietly, turning back to finish packing, frustrated that he didn’t seem to understand. 

Sandor bent down next to her and she paused packing, turning to him. His eyes were soft, warm, inviting. It was still a look she was getting used to seeing. 

“Keep the horse, girl. But know you’ve got me too,” he reminded her, not planning on giving up on her either. 

Arya gave him a small smile, still unsure of their growing bond and what it could inevitably lead to. _Good memories_ , she reminded herself. She leaned up and kissed him softly, lingering as he cupped her face in his hands. 

“I mean it,” he urged, his brow furrowing as he looked at her. 

When he held her close like that, the world felt insignificant and she all but forgot about anything outside of them. Her small hand came to sit on top of his, holding his warmth close to her face. Part of her wished she could just forget about the vengeance she so strongly needed to get for her family and just book passage West as soon as they got to Lannisport and never look back. But that wasn’t her. No, she still had names to offer to her God, at least two more and then she could move on.  

So for now, she’d let him hold her close and forget about the world for one more comfortable night. 

 

—

 

Pre-dawn brought with it the chill of Winter gone, but being so close to the mountains Sandor was glad to have the extra layers they’d purchased. Hiking their packs high on their shoulders, they pulled the hoods low over their faces and left the inn in relative darkness. 

The streets were empty save for the occasional person: a drunk stumbling back from a brothel, a man pushing a cart of potatoes towards the market, two men seeming to patrol the town. Arya led them down a dark corridor to avoid the men, coming out on the other side of town. Sandor briefly wondered how she knew the layout of the town so well, but the notion was put aside as she threw her arm out to stop them in the alley. 

She watched as the two men walked down another corridor, looking for something. Them. 

“We have to be quick,” she whispered as they ducked out of the shadows and hurried for the woods. 

Scrambling for the woods as quietly as they could, they had just thought they’d made it when they hear a holler behind them.

“Oy, you two!”

“Fuck,” Sandor muttered under his breath as they dipped into the dense trees. 

They had to be careful as they picked their way over the rocks dotting the floor of the forest. It was dark, hard to see and the two men were gaining on them as they drug their heavy packs with them. 

“Shit!”

Sandor heard a crash and looked back, squinting to find Arya. He ran back towards her, seeing her picking herself up from the ground, having tripped on the rocks. But the men were upon them. Swiftly he dropped his pack to the ground and moved in front of Arya as she came to her feet.

“You two! We don’t want no trouble,” they started.

“You followed us into the woods, so I’d say you do,” Arya said as she came around from behind Sandor, her sword already drawn in her left hand, her right behind her back. 

The two men drew their swords, readying their stance. 

“Look here little lady—”

The man’s words were cut from his throat as Arya flicked a dagger into his neck. His eyes went wide in the dim light before crumbling to the ground. The other man looked over in surprise and turned back as Arya approached him, her grey eyes dark in the early morning light. 

He swung sloppily and she dodged, turning and shoving the sword into his side. With a bloody groan he fell to the ground and she came to stand over him, her sword over his chest. 

“I’m not a lady,” she whispered before plunging the sword into the man’s chest. 

Kneeling over the other man, she pulled her dagger from his neck, wiping it off and returning it to her boot. She stood and turned to Sandor, wiping her sword off and sheathing it again. 

“One second you’re tripping on rocks, the next you’re killing these two cunts.”

“Both on purpose,” she said cooly, grabbing her pack and continuing into the woods. “The further they followed us into the woods, the more likely someone would follow our trail.”

Sandor followed her, shaking his head.

 

—

 

They had been walking for a couple hours in silence, as they were wont to do, when Arya stopped to look at the map. She studied it for a moment as Sandor took a swig of water, before turning to him with a grim look on her face.

“We have to go up,” she pointed to the rocks they had been skirting for the last several miles. “Otherwise we’ll just end up back on River Road.” 

Sandor eyed the steep grade, not particularly fond of the idea but knowing it was the only way. With a grumble he began making his way towards the incline. 

They picked their way along the rocks gingerly, gripping snow-dampened edges as they worked upwards. It would have been strenuous without the packs, but the added weight made it feel almost impossible. Arya had made it a ways in front of Sandor, figuring out their path as she went. Every so often, she’d turn around and check on him.

“Not dead yet,” he’d call up, labored as he clamored up the rocks.  

“Not much further. We can make camp at the summit,” she called back. She looked at the rocks and mentally mapped out their moves. 

 

—

 

After what felt like an eternity of climbing, they reached the summit. The late afternoon sun hung low in the sky, bathing the snowy rocks with warm light. The top of the summit was fairly wide, with a number of trees dotting it’s ridge between banks of snow and rock. 

The path back down seemed a bit easier, Sandor noticed thankfully as he dropped his pack to the ground, rolling his shoulders to loosen the knots. As Arya began collecting firewood, he picked through his pack for rations. Old habits. 

Once a fire was burning, Arya began cleaning the weapons she’d used earlier that day. Sandor chewed on a piece of salt pork, watching the range in front of them for signs of threat. They sat in silence, small talk not something either of them was particularly good at. Though Sandor recalled the many times as he was going to sleep that she would pick to ask him something ridiculous or make vague threats of his death. He was glad she’d gotten past that stage, he thought with a small smile. 

Arya laid back on one of the blankets, her arms behind her head, staring at the stars. The night was clearer than she could remember in a long time and the stars shone so bright, the lack of a moon made no difference. Sandor sat on a near by rock, picking at his nails with a small knife. 

“Do you know the story of the wolf in the sky?” She said quietly, after some time. 

Sandor looked over to her, a small grunt his only answer. 

“There was a man, Beron, who had lived in the Lands of Always Winter, before they were covered in snow,” Arya began. “He ran with wolves, was the king of them. His people worshipped him for his ability to communicate with the wolves.”

She squinted, turning her head slightly as she looked at the stars, trying to find the constellation. Her voice had gotten low, and Sandor stopped picking at his nails to watch her. 

“The gods, not happy that a mere man was being worshipped by the people, killed the man’s favorite wolf—Darkfang—who he had regarded as his own son,” she continued, staring intently at the sky, a distant look in her eyes, the smallest of smiles on her face. 

“So Beron, angry and seeking revenge, went into the stars and killed one of the god’s sons, feeding it to him without him knowing.” 

She looked over at him as she sat up, bringing her knees to her chest and staring out over the hills they sat atop. 

She sat quiet for a moment, her thick brows twisted in contemplation. Sensing her silent unease, Sandor stood and came to sit behind her. He pulled her back against his chest, holding her tightly as she picked at the hem of her cloak. Looking back up to the stars, she continued. 

“When the god found out he had eaten his own son, he was angry and punished Beron. He was turned into the wolf he desperately wanted to be and was thrown into the stars, where he has to watch over his pack for eternity, unable to help them.”

Arya pointed up towards a bright constellation, running her fingers along the path of the stars, pointing out the wolf. Sandor squinted, following her finger point. 

“He was a stupid cunt for going up there in the first place,” he said after a moment.

She scoffed. “He was getting revenge for the death of someone important to him,” she said matter-of-factly, looking over her shoulder at him. 

“He shouldn’t have been so plain about it,” Sandor retorted, looking down at her.

Arya turned in his embrace, smiling that dark smile she only got when she was thinking of death. 

“Precisely.”

Sandor raised his good eyebrow in question, not sure what she was getting at. Without leaving his embrace, she reached over to her pack and pulled out the oddly shaped bag he recalled from when he was treating the wound on her back. The leather was well worn but simple in design, save for the decorative gold snaps that held it closed and the carving of a two-toned face on the flap. 

She fingered the bag gently, her expression dark—furrowed brows and the slightest hint of a smirk at the corner of her lips. 

“I can’t be obvious about killing Cersei. I wasn’t obvious when I killed Walder Frey. Or all of his sons. Or Meryn Trant. I did it with these,” she said quietly, turning to give him a look that sent a chill down his spine. 

“What are ‘these’?” Sandor asked, caution in his voice. 

“My faces,” she said plainly, handing him the bag. 

He took the bag from her and ran his thumb over the mark on the flap. Hesitantly, he popped the snaps and lifted the flap as an almost rubber-like tan material peaked out.  

“What do you mean, ‘your faces’?” he growled, eyeing her before he went any further in finding out what was in the bag. 

Small fingers moved his out of the way and she pulled the tan slab out, fine wrinkles forming along it and suddenly the hair of eyebrows, and the hole where an eye should have been. 

“What the fuck _is_ that?” Sandor looked at it as if it would bite him.

“How I’ll get into Cersei’s chambers,” she said quietly, fingering the face of a middle aged woman. 

He glared at her. “That’s not what I meant.”

“They are the faces of the dead. I use them to infiltrate and kill. A trick picked up during my time in Braavos at the House of Black and White.”

“A pretty sick fucking trick,” he glowered. 

“Valar morghulis,” she said softly, placing the face back in the bag and snapping the flap closed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arya's story is *very* loosely based on the constellation Lupus, which Babylonians referred to as "wild dog" or "wolf". There is a story of Lycaon, king of the Arcadians, who served Zeus with the flesh of the god’s own son and was punished by being turned into a wolf. The story isn't connected to the constellation per say, but as I researched 'wolf constellations' the two were mentioned together and it felt like a good mirror to Arya's feeding of sons to Walder.


	15. storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The trek continues but a storm hinders their progress beyond belief.

**fourteen.storm.**

_And they call me under  
_ _And I'm shaking like a leaf  
_ _And they call me under  
_ _And I wither underneath  
_ _In this storm  
_ _I am a stranger  
_ _I am an alien inside a structure  
_ _Are you really gonna love me when I'm gone?  
_ _With all my thoughts  
_ _And all my faults  
_ _I feel it biting  
_ _I feel it break my skin so uninviting  
_ _Are you really gonna need me when I'm gone?_

_\- I Of The Storm, Of Monsters and Men_

 

* * *

 

_‘Gregor!’_

_The five-year-old ran as fast as he could through the corridors, trying to find his friend. He had made the mistake of playing with her where people could see, and as a result, his brother had targeted her for one of his cruel games._

_He ran clumsily, frantically, through the halls towards his brother, fearing the worst. Gregor was bigger than him, faster than him, stronger than him. And definitely stronger than his friend._

_Panting, he rounded a corner to the small courtyard and froze. His heart pounded in his heaving chest as he stared at his brother. His friend looked up at him, her grey eyes wide in fear under her messy mop of brown hair. Gregor held her around the neck with one hand, his fingers tight against her skin._

_His brother had always been mean, hurting the dogs and servants, picking the legs off bugs and wings off butterflies to leave them to suffer their pain, always wide-eyed in awe of his power. But this wasn’t his brother. This bloated, purple and grey thing was not most definitely not his brother. At least, not anymore._

_‘Run,’ his friend squeaked out and his brother clenched her throat tighter, causing her to cry out._

_He squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head. Gregor would not take his friend, he would not get away with this. When he opened his eyes though, there were bodies strewn about the courtyard, causing him to gasp and step back._

_‘Just try it, dog,’ said the woman through clenched teeth, who now stood behind Gregor. He did not know this woman, not yet anyway, but she was glaring at him as though she knew him._

_The bodies on the ground began twitching, their movements mechanical and almost frozen as though they were thawing. A young woman stood, her red hair plastered across her bloody face. She looked up at him, her eyes the icy blue of death not the piercing, crystal clear blue he knew they should have been. Why did he know they should be a different blue? He wasn’t sure why he was so adamant that they were the wrong color, but he did not have time to think about it further as her hair fell from her face and he saw the brand marking her forehead, the reason for the blood._

_Three angry dogs._

_He turned back to his brother just as Gregor dropped his friend to the floor. She fell heavily and did not move. More bodies began standing around him and the woman behind Gregor began laughing. Shaking his head, hot tears running down his face, he ran in search of his father._

_‘Wait for me!’ he heard behind him. It was his friend’s voice._

_But he kept running anyway. He had to get away from his brother as quickly as he could._

_‘Wait!’_

_‘Wait!’_

_‘Wait up!’_

_‘Wake up!’_

“Wake up.”

With a gasp of air, Sandor’s eyes shot open, looking at the trees above him. Soft grey eyes, the same eyes from his dreams, stared at him in concern. His sweat was cold on his brow as he caught his breath, sitting up on his elbows. He looked around, realizing he was at their campsite in the valley, not Clegane’s Keep. There were birds chirping in the trees, which rustled in the light breeze. The sun still hung low in the sky, bathing their campsite in a dusky orange hue that brought out the red in Arya’s hair.

“Dream?” Arya inquired softly from beside him, familiar with how he was feeling. 

She was lying next to him under the furs and blankets, her head propped up on her pack. Under the tangle of her hair, she gave him a weak smile and put her hand on his chest, pulling him back down with her. 

Sandor sighed, blinking the sleep out of his eyes as she moved closer, laying her head on his chest. His heart was pounding under her ear and she closed her eyes, just listening to him calm down. His cold hand found the warmth of her side as he pulled her closer, eliciting a small purr of contentment from her.

“I still dream about Robb all the time,” she said distantly. “I was never close to him like I was to Jon. But his death will always be the most vivid in my mind.”

He ran his hand along her side, feeling the loosening stitches of her leather gambeson. They slept in all of their clothes these days, both for warmth and in the event of an ambush. The idea of being caught as naked as their name day by some hill person did a little to lift Sandor’s spirits.

“The Freys were cunts,” he replied after a moment.

“And now they’re all dead,” Arya quipped, her voice dark. 

“Hope the bastards suffered.”

“I watched every single one of them suffer. I held Walder Frey as the life bled out of him,” she remarked nonchalantly, as though they were talking about what they might eat for breakfast. Definitely not pie.

Sandor looked over at her, a proud smirk on his lips as he kissed her forehead. They laid under the warm furs for a bit longer, listening to the birds chirp above their heads, dirty and hungry but content.

 

* * *

 

“How are you going to do it?” Sandor called over to her as she knelt by a stream to fill her water skin. 

“I showed you how,” Arya said as washed her face off. The cool water was refreshing on her dirty skin. 

“You showed me faces. Not a plan,” he corrected, bending down to splash some water on his own face. 

She looked out over the valley they had dipped into. It was narrow, with thickets of trees and brush along the hills and a skinny stream running through the center. The rock bed was filled with little cream colored stones and she wondered if they might find some gold if they looked hard enough. They were in the mountains where all of Westeros’ gold was mined, after all. 

Arya rolled one of the smooth little stones in her hand as she contemplated Sandor’s words. She hadn’t thought past using the faces to get into the Rock, so she wasn’t sure how she was going to get close to the lioness. 

“You don’t know what you’re going to do,” he stated, reading her furrowed expression. He frowned as she looked over at him. 

She shrugged. “I don’t know who’s in there, who I might need to kill to get to her. No sense signing off on a plan that doesn’t work out. If I go in knowing I’ll have to think on my feet, I’ll be better off.”

“ _We’ll_ be better off,” he corrected. “That’s why I want to know what you’re thinking.” 

“Well I figured you’d be dealing with your brother.”

“Last I saw him, he was up her cunt every move she made. If he’s still around, he’ll be wherever she is.” 

Arya hummed in consideration, her mouth twisting as she thought about their options. 

“I mean, I’ll be able to get close to her—no one will recognize me. But you, I don’t know how to get you in there without anyone noticing.”

“Guess we’ll figure it out when we get there,” he acquiesced. 

She barked a short laugh. “See? Told you.”

 

* * *

 

They had been trekking through the mountains for a fortnight, climbing and descending ridge after ridge. The rations were thinning out and the wine had been gone for a couple days now, much to Sandor’s disappointment. Generally their spirits had been good; they’d passed the time talking about what might be to the West over the Sunset Sea or recounting stories from their time together years ago. 

The weather had been in their favor so far. While there was a chill to the night air, they had furs, cloaks, blankets, and each other to keep warm. Until one morning when they awoke to very cold, very damp circumstances. 

It started as a drizzle, nothing more than a wake up call to get them up and moving before everything got muddy. They had a steep descent to make today and the quicker they started, the less likely they were to run into issue. 

Arya gingerly made her way down the rocky mountain side first, poking her walking stick in front of her to check for soft or loose spots. The hillside was covered in a layer of bright green moss, but no snow. They hadn’t seen snow since the last mountain ridge. White and grey rocks jutted from the mossy surface, slick with rain. She tried to get them down the mountain as fast as she could, before the rain turned worse, but with a crack of thunder a sheet of heavy rain fell.

Blinking the rain out of her eyes, she looked back at Sandor who was resolutely looking at the sky with the anger of all the gods, new and old. She could hardly see him now, though he was only a couple yards from her and she wanted nothing more than to find shelter, build a fire and get as close to him as possible to stave off the cold that was seeping through her clothes.

The rain stung like ice, beating down on them as they made their way down, even slower than before. Booming thunder echoed the flashes in the sky, dark and angry though it was mid-day. 

Sandor could hardly see her when it happened. A bright crack of light hit a spindly little tree that jutted from the rocks, followed almost immediately by a deafening bellow of thunder that rang in his ears. He was several yards from her, the tree about the same distance but above her. When the lightning struck, the little tree shattered into splinters, taking with it the precarious rock formation it dug its roots into. The rocks, moss and mud slid down the mountain side, and just as Arya turned to see what had been hit, her eyes went wide as she was grabbed by the mudslide and pulled down the mountain.

“No!” Sandor yelled, hardly able to hear himself over the rain that pounded the earth around him. 

Frantically he began a quicker descent, sliding down the mud and moss, grasping the rocks roughly as he went. He felt like their roles had reversed in that moment, remembering when he went over the edge of the mountainside in the Vale all those years ago. It had been a terrible fall, rolling and knocking into rocks as he tumbled to what he thought was his death. His right leg ached at the memory, threatening to give out on him as he followed the mudslide, furious he had let her get so far ahead of him. 

 

* * *

 

All Arya remembered was looking up to a wave of wet debris falling towards her. In the distance she heard a yell, what must have been Sandor, and then it hit her. She fell with it, tumbling, hitting rocks and small trees, being swallowed by the mud and moss.

At first she felt pain. In her side, in her arm—shit, her sword arm—and her head. It radiated from those places through the rest of her body. She tasted the mud in her mouth, the dry tackiness of dirt and the earthy, chewiness of moss. She tried to spit it out, but more and more came, suffocating her. Whenever she opened her eyes, they were assaulted by the grit, forcing her to squeeze them shut despite the silt scratching her eyes behind her eyelids. 

The world went black and she thought this was it. She wouldn’t go out by way of sword or fire or old age, she would die because of some fucking mud. Her thoughts drifted to her father, her mother, her brothers and sister, wondering if they felt the calm she did before they died. Did they suffer, or was it instant? A beheading was instant, she knew her father hadn’t suffered, at least physically. Robb’s body had been stabbed and bloodied when she saw it atop a horse, his head no longer there. She wondered if they had beheaded him like their father, or if he had suffered the chest wounds first. The rest of her family, she did not know how they had died but she hoped they felt like she did right now—concerned but oddly at peace, a dull pain but nothing she couldn’t bare. 

She thought about all the people she had killed in cold blood and let suffer: Meryn Trant, Walder Frey, Littlefinger, countless others. She remembered the fear in their eyes when death knocked. The Faceless Men were supposed to bring death as quickly as possible, but they had all suffered and she remembered enjoying every moment of their torment. Maybe that’s why she left them, taking their lessons but not their morals.

She remembered the warm sun of Braavos, the cold snows of the North. The freeing feeling of riding Meria through the fields, the carnal dreams of her direwolf Nymeria. The love of Gendry, the familiarity of Sandor. Gendry had idolized her, worshiped her in their short time together—thinking the world of her. It had made her uncomfortable but she also had felt powerful, in control. She didn’t feel in control now—much like how she felt around Sandor. She felt pulled apart, experiencing every single possible feeling in her small body, all her life’s bruises on display. The lack of control hurt, much like how she felt now beneath the earth.

At least she had been able to experience some good things before she died. 

_‘Take a moment to appreciate the good times.’_

 

* * *

 

The mud had gone far down the hillside, and with the torrential rains, he couldn’t see anything. His heart pounded in his chest as he fumbled over the rocks, slipping on the slick moss and puddling muck. He couldn’t remember feeling this much fear since he watched the Blackwater burn, but even that was fear of a distant memory. During the Long Night, he hadn’t felt this fear. Sure, he had been concerned about the increasing number of wights, but again, it was only his own life, and what did that matter? He did not care about his own life. 

But her’s, her’s he cared about. He paused on a rock ledge, squinting through the rains, catching his breath. The rains felt hot on his face as he searched the wet rubble in front of him. His brow furrowed as he realized it wasn’t the rain that was hot, but his own tears. When was the last time he cried? Maybe in the final, delirious moments in the Vale when he was sure he would die? When his brother had pressed him to the brazier? 

It didn’t matter, he realized. Knowing he could lose her, he realized that despite everything, he had finally found someone to love. A hot, pained groan came from his throat like the fire of a dragon and he realized he was sobbing. The thunder above him rumbled as lightning struck in the distance. The rains were getting lighter but had already started causing little rivers to form down the mountain side, making it almost impossible to see the ground under him as he moved down the side of the mountain. 

What would he do if she was gone? He had never loved anyone—not a real kind of love—and it felt like a sick fucking joke that when he’d finally softened to a point where he could let someone in, they would literally be ripped from him. The ache in the pit of his stomach had grown bigger than he imagined it could—he’d never experienced a pain like this; this odd sensation of loss gnawing away at his insides as though rats were trying to get out. He’d have preferred rats to this. 

The rain had turned to a drizzle, the distant rumbles of thunder mocking him as they left him to deal with their destruction. The mountain side had settled, the little rivers running thin over the mud and muck that had been pulled from up high. Branches and rocks stuck out from the almost black surface of the hill, but not her. He did not see her. 

He found his footing halfway down the mudslide and looked around, trying to listen for sounds that she was alive. But he couldn’t hear anything over the sound of his own heart thumping in his ears. If he didn’t get to her soon, her chances of surviving would be slim, if she wasn’t dead already. _Shit_ , he had to find her. 

That’s when he spotted the small, crumpled body, half buried in the mud.


	16. name day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor finds help. Arya remembers her birthday.

 

**fifteen. name day.**

 

_Cold sheets. Oh, where's my love?  
_ _I am searching high, I'm searching low in the night_

_Does she know that we bleed the same?  
_ _Don't wanna cry but I break that way_

_Did she run away?_  
_Did she run away? I don't know_  
_If she ran away_  
_If she ran away, come back home  
_ _Just come home_

**[\- Where’s My Love, SYML](https://open.spotify.com/user/grafxnerd/playlist/6lfy4MDQinZ3AvxbrzlH0x) **

 

* * *

She thought it odd that she could see the entire hillside from here. It was a muddy ruin, with scraggly old trees and sharp rocks dotting its tall, jagged surface. In the distance, over the ridge, she could see where the storm had gone, off in the direction they had come. A distant part of her was angry at the storm, but more so she was oddly at peace. 

A familiar figure moved on the mountain and she wondered where he was running in such a hurry, concerned he might slip on the muck. She watched him slide to his knees near the body of another person that was half buried in the mud. 

Standing next to him, she watched as Sandor dug the young woman out of the muck. Arya knelt down, watching as his distressed face grew darker as he pulled the muddy person into his lap. That’s when she realized it was her. A passing sense of disassociation came over her as she stared down at herself.

Under the mud, a large gash was bleeding heavily from somewhere on top of the woman’s head and her face was covered in scratches both shallow and deep. With a gentle finger, she reached up to her own face and touched the place where the deep gash was on the young woman’s head. There was no gash, no mud or blood. 

With curiosity, she watched as Sandor wiped the muck from her face with gentle hands, careful not to disturb any of the cuts. She could see him mouthing something, his face contorted in what she’d describe as dread. All she wanted to do was put a hand on his shoulder and tell him it would all be okay. The gentleness he was showing her despite his hurried pace surprised her and she couldn’t help but smile.

As she watched, she assumed she would wake up, her cool grey eyes meeting his warm brown eyes in reassurance that everything was okay, that she was fine. But she didn’t. Arya wasn’t sure if she was breathing, and from his panic, he didn’t either. She watched as he stood up, picking her broken, dirty body out of the mud and moving to a more stable location further down the hillside. He got further from her, walking away down the hill but she did not move. The world started getting dark around her and she blinked rapidly, trying to focus her eyes on anything to no avail. But there was no panic this time, unlike when she’d last lost her eyesight. No, everything went black calmly this time. Calmly and quietly.

 

* * *

The sense of fear that flooded his system when he saw her was unlike any he had ever experienced. Coming to her crumbled body, he called out for her, over and over, as he picked through the muck to dislodge her. Pulling her into his lap, he wiped the mud from her pale face and gave her body a light shake as he tried to wake her up.

“Come on, girl. This isn’t how you’re going out,” his voice cracked as he tried to be firm. 

She was hardly breathing, but at least, he tried to rationalize, she still was. Sandor ran his hand along her cheek, careful of the angry cuts that littered her skin. He could tell she was bleeding from somewhere on her head and her left arm had a huge gash in it, but it didn’t seem to him that she was suffering any critical injuries. Perhaps she had hit her head really hard. The mud made it hard to see the wound under her hair. 

Her pack was scattered about in the mud, food and water skins ruined. Buried half in the mud, he saw the leather bag she had shown him just a few days ago. Reaching over, he picked it up, wiping the mud from the surface. It was still intact. Sandor shoved it into his own pack before turning back to her, knowing if she survived this, she would need those faces.

He looked around, frantically searching the valley as though he would suddenly find a maester to save her. In the distance, about a mile away, he saw a thin sliver of smoke coming from the trees in the valley. Gently he picked her up, cradling her bloodied head against his chest and walked towards the smoke. It was his only hope.

 

* * *

 

It was her name day. She liked this day, not for the gifts, but because no one said anything mean to her. Her sister couldn’t call her Horseface, Septa Mordane couldn’t yell at her for her crooked stitches, her mother reluctantly let her run around in dirty clothes. 

It wasn’t often that she got to go into the Wolfswood, but she loved it there. There was a roughness, a wildness to it that the Godswood would never have. The Godswood was her mother’s place of worship, this was hers. 

Barefoot, she splashed in the stream as she tried to catch water spiders with Bran. The water was cool over her feet, but it felt refreshing in the warm summer air. She had been born in the summer, much like the rest of her siblings, and winter was a long way off. Not that they would know that, with their father constantly reminding them of their house words.

Winter is coming. 

Arya didn’t think it would ever come. How could it? There were beautiful birds chirping in the trees, large blossoms on the bushes, squirrels and chipmunks darting from tree to tree, babbling creeks and warm breezes. She didn’t think winter would ever come and that made her happy. 

“Ah, Bran!” Arya wiped the cool water from her face and watched as her brother grinned mischievously, his hand ready to swat more water at her. 

Behind her she heard Jon and Robb laugh. She whipped around and shot them a glare but that just made them laugh harder. Picking up a small, smooth stone from the stream, she lobbed it towards them, almost hitting Jon in the head. He dodged it and with fake anger on his face ran down the bank towards her. With a carefree giggle, she began running from him, up the opposite bank and into the woods. 

The rocks and sticks on the forest floor did not hurt her calloused feet as she ran through the trees laughing. Nymeria barked and ran at her heels, following on an unknown journey with as much glee as the young girl had in her eyes. They ran for what felt like an eternity, until she collapsed into a patch of moss with a content exhale. Nymeria licked at her face eagerly as Arya swung her head back and forth trying to escape the wet pink tongue. 

“Arya…,” she heard a voice speak out. It was not one she recognized. She opened her eyes, sat up, and looked around. 

Nymeria had ran off into the woods, where a low mist lazily rolled in over the bracken. Arya felt her skin prickle with gooseflesh as she stood, looking around for the source of the voice. 

“ _Arya_!” This time it was her mother, in a tone Arya was more familiar with than she wanted to be. Her mother always scolded her for doing the wrong thing. Was being happy so wrong? 

The voice had come from the direction Nymeria had run towards, so she followed it. She rubbed her bare arms as she crept into the fog. It was getting harder to see and snow had begun to fall. 

“Arya, where are your shoes! The ground is so _filthy_ ,” she heard Sansa chastise. Tears began welling up in her eyes. What she wouldn’t give to have her sister yell at her again. 

She heard the laugh of several young men and boys. It sounded foreign at first, until she heard the unmistakeable, comforting sound of Jon. “Good job, Bran—not as close as Arya, but not too bad either.” The older boys laughed. Why couldn’t Arya find them?

“I told you, Arya, you must protect yourself. And look after one another,” she heard the warm but stern voice of her father. 

Arya looked around, the tears falling from her face now. “I tried, father, I tried!” she yelled at the trees. Her pained grey eyes darted around the forest as she spun in circles, looking for any signs of her family.

“Do I have to beg you?” A gruff, pained voice called. “Do it.”

The tears were hot down her face now. She had never felt more alone than in this moment. A rock seemed to reach out for her foot and she fell, hard. The ground was unyielding and scraped at her hands. Her fingers clenched at the rocky surface as the memory came back. It reminded her of the rocks in the Vale, grey and black with flecks of white, moss hugging the crags tightly. The Vale. That was the only other time she had felt this lonely. 

A broken voice called out, on the verge of tears, “ _Do it_.”

“I couldn’t!” Arya yelled out, over and over until her voice was hoarse. She remember the pain of Jaqen’s stick as it hit her arm repeatedly when she told him of the Hound. 

‘ _I hated him.’_

_‘A girl lies. To me, to the Many-Faced God. To herself.’_

A growl caught her attention and she whipped around, eyes wide as she saw Nymeria. But it wasn’t the small pup she saw just moments ago; Nymeria was large now, the size of a small horse. Her gold eyes glowed in the dim forest light, her teeth were barred and her hackles stood angrily. Beside her came five other direwolves, all barring their teeth. But not at her. 

She turned around to see what they were growling at. An angry, massive three headed dog stood behind her. All three heads were growling at the wolves, seemingly not aware of her presence. Strangely, Arya wasn’t scared and began to approach the dog.

The beast, with its angry brown eyes and slobbering mouths, looked down at her and seemed to soften. It stood taller than her as she came to stand in front of it, in awe of its unusual form. The heads sniffed her, its breath hot and foul on her face. Just when she thought it might attack her, it whimpered and laid down in front of her, sniffing at her bare feet, one tongue licking her cold, dirty toes gently. 

It’s brown eyes were gentle now, looking up at her expectantly. With a timid hand, Arya reached out to pet one of the heads. The black fur was soft under her fingers as they ran over the scarred face of the beast. The smell of death came off the dog, like rotting meat that had been in the sun for far too long, as though it had been surrounded by it its entire life, perhaps guarding it. It felt appropriate that it would submit to her, a servant of Death.

“Arya,” she heard from behind her. She turned to see her family standing there in place of the direwolves, as though it was the day King Robert had arrived at Winterfell, the day that changed everything. Everyone looked so happy: father, mother, Robb, Sansa, Jon, Bran and Rickon, all standing there with the proud, stern faces of the Stark family. 

“We must stay together, come with us,” Eddard said, holding out a hand towards her. 

“The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives,” Sansa said, her pretty red hair glistening in the nonexistent sun of the dreary forest. 

“Girl, it’s not your time,” she heard from behind her and turned to see Sandor standing there, the three-headed dog no where in sight.

“Come on, girl,” he said quietly, holding his hand out. “Don’t die on me.”

Arya turned back to her family, with hot tears streaming down her flushed cheeks. Her brows knit together as she looked at them, her whole family, together again. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she turned back to Sandor, looking up at him. His hand was still held out, his eyes still the warm brown she had grown fond of. 

“It’s not time,” she said to her family with one last, quick glance before taking Sandor’s hand. 

As her dirty, bloodied palm touched his hand everything around her seemed to explode in the brightest light she had ever seen. Then it went black.

* * *

 

The small stone cottage had a couple rooms to it, all filled with the smell of smoke from the crumbling hearth. An elderly couple lived there, surviving off what the earth gave them. Hunched and hard of both sight and sound, they spent most of their time at the small wooden table in the main room, seemingly waiting for their deaths. Twice a day, the woman would come to the small, dark bedroom to check on Arya. It had been two weeks since Sandor had come upon the old man in a field near the house, muddy and exhausted as he carried the she-wolf. 

Sandor passed the time helping the older man with chores outside the house: chopping wood, patching the roof where it had leaked from the storm, tending to his crops for him. When he wasn’t helping the old man, he sat diligently in a too-small chair next to the bed Arya laid in, reading through the random books he found in the house. At night, he laid next to her watching her shallow breaths for what felt like hours in the dim light before he finally would succumb to sleep. 

Arya breathing was hollow, but she had been otherwise unresponsive to any sound or touch. So when he heard her gasp for air violently, he rushed to the side of the bed and held her hand tight, hoping for the best. He watched as tears streamed down her twisted face, as her brow furrowed deeply, her lips seemed to move though no words escaped. 

“Arya…”

She choked out a sob, her hand squeezing his, but still she did not open her eyes. 

“I tried… I couldn’t…” she mumbled to herself weakly. “I couldn’t, I couldn’t…”

“Come on, girl,” he coaxed, squeezing her hand tightly in his. 

He brushed the hair off her now-damp forehead. Another bout of tears and sobs came from her, wracking her frail, broken body. Her skin started to feel clammy as her body went limp. He held her face in one of his hands.

“Don’t die on me,” he whispered, his voice faltering. Despite having spent the last two weeks with no response from her, he expected her to recover. He hadn’t actually considered her succumbing to her injuries. 

“It’s not time,” she said, almost inaudibly. 

Sandor watched in anticipation, pressing a kiss to her forehead before settling on the floor next to the bed to watch over her. Her breath began to even out as he watched her, for how long he wasn’t sure.

The room had grown dark, lit only by a small candle on the table by the bed. It had been a couple of hours since she last spoke, but he still sat there holding her hand in his. His eyes had started getting heavy and he closed them, intent on resting for just a few moments. A few moments turned into a few more moments, until the candle in the room was but a nub of wax, and the sun had long since gone below the horizon.

“You smell foul,” he heard weakly. In his half-asleep daze, he thought he had made it up. 

Arya shifted in the bed, hissing as the pain in her side radiated through her body. He hadn’t imagined it! Quickly he moved to sit on the edge of the bed again, looking down at her.

“Not smelling too sweet yourself, girl.” He stroked her hair, trying to see her face in the dim light. 

She turned her face towards him, a weak grin on her bruised face. “Not a girl,” she quipped shakily. 

Sandor let out a sigh of relief and pulled her close, kissing her forehead. Immediately he regretted it, as she let out a yelp in pain and grabbed her side. 

“Got yourself beat up pretty good,” he offered as he watched her sit up in the bed gingerly. 

“How long have I been out?” Arya raised a thick brow towards him as she squinted in the dim light. 

“Two weeks,” he said as he grabbed her a cup of water from the side table. 

The water felt like mecca as it went down her parched throat. She coughed as she drank a bit too quickly, wincing in pain. The dim lit room was small, that much she could tell, but the fact that they were in a room when they had been in the mountains confused her.

“Where the hell are we?”

“In Orella and Ancell’s bedroom,” he said plainly as he dipped a fresh candle to the barely lit wax nub. The room began to come into focus as the light grew brighter. 

Arya threw him a quizzical look as she took another sip of the water. Sandor grabbed a plate that had some carrots, radishes and hard bread on it, offering it to her. 

“And who exactly are Orella and Ancell?” she asked as she gingerly chewed on a carrot. She hadn’t realized just how truly hungry she had been. Had she not eaten since before the storm? Was that even possible?

“The old geezers that saved your life, that’s who,” he said, watching her closely

She chewed on a piece of bread as she examined her body in the dim but warm glow of the lone candle. Her left arm was bandaged but seemed to have decent range of motion, and there was clearly a deep wound on her side. Bruises decorated her skin under the thin tunic she wore. Her head throbbed a bit and she found herself fingering a scab on her scalp. 

“Didn’t break any bones, thank the gods,” Sandor added. 

Ayra looked up at him, her gaze soft and sorrowful. “Thank the gods,” she said quietly, her words meant for him and not her bones. 

Sandor collected her in his arms gently as he moved to lay down with her. She pressed a kiss to the scarred side of his face and nestled under his chin. He held her close, as though she might not actually be there. He wouldn’t lose her again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The three-headed dog is based off Cerberus, the hound that guards hell in Greek mythology. It felt appropriate since the Clegane sigil is three dogs and Sandor had a horse named after the death god of the seven. The more you know. :rainbows:


	17. in the shadow of the rock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya and Sandor prepare for their infiltration of Casterly Rock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holy shit-what!? told ya'll i didn't abandon it. <3

 

**sixteen. in the shadow of the rock.**

_So, you just let me know what you're missing  
_ _Come take the pedestal  
_ _You'd be the reason why I keep slipping  
_ _But come home_

_You and I, we're one too many worlds apart_  
_It really shouldn't work but it does  
_ _It really shouldn't work but it does  
_ _And side by side, we're different but somehow the same  
_ _It really shouldn't work but it does  
_ _It really shouldn't work but it does  
_ _When it comes to us_

_—When It Comes to Us, Frances, RITUAL_

 

* * *

Once Arya had been well enough to begin their journey again, it had taken them another two weeks of travel to reach the city in the shadows of Casterly Rock. Every night as they had made camp, she had ran through her old water-dancing moves to get her sword arm back into proper working condition. It ached on cold nights, but by the time they’d been a day’s walk from Lannisport she’d managed to get the best of Sandor during their sparring. But only once.

Lannisport was a bustling, beautiful port town on the sea. The golden city, it was called, with it’s gilded rooftops and sparkling towers. Ships dotted the glistening harbor as they made their way to and from the ports. They had stood on the hill atop the city, in awe of the sunset over the water. Neither knew what existed across the ocean, but hoped they’d find out soon enough.

They’d found a discrete inn close to the north edge of the city, in the shadows of the Rock. Unlike the eastern side of Westeros, the western end had not fallen victim to the Night King’s wrath before the living army was able to defeat it. The city was lively and seemed to be thriving despite the black heart that looked down on them from Casterly Rock.

“Are you ready?” Sandor asked as he ran the whetstone over his sword’s edge. 

Arya was standing at the window, her arms crossed as she looked out across the city. She turned to him with a frown, but he still thought she was beautiful.

“As ready as I can be,” she admitted, turning back to the busy street below. 

Sandor set the whetstone down, sheathing his sword in its scabbard. “Come here,” he beckoned, watching as she walked over to stand in front of him. 

He ran his hand along her side before looking up at her, his brown eyes sad. Her small fingers found his face, holding it on both sides. Leaning in, she pressed a light kiss to his lips. Their foreheads pressed together as he held her close, searching her cloudy grey eyes. 

“You don’t want to go,” she surmised as she pulled away and climbed into his lap, her legs on either side of him. 

He ran his hand along her back, the other resting on her leg, thumbing it absently. Sandor knew she needed to do this, but after everything they’d gone through, he wanted to book passage west and never look back. As he got older, his desire to kill had waned, and his need for vengeance with it. He found himself thinking about the future for the first time ever, about what there was for him, with her by his side. Love was not something that was in his vocabulary—he’d never loved nor been loved. But whatever the twist in the pit of his stomach was, where there once was just a hole, she was the cause of it.

“I want you safe,” he admitted, pulling back to look at her. “We’re in the biggest port city on the west coast—we could just cross the Sunset Sea. Be on our way. Find out what’s west of here, like you want.”

Arya frowned as she sat back and Sandor knew that had been the wrong thing to say. Was it so wrong to want to forget everything in the past? Who was there to avenge if everyone they both knew were dead? He had found a happiness with her that was more important to him than killing his already dead brother. But that happiness would all be gone if something happened to her. Losing his own life didn’t matter to him, but he was scared of what life was without her now that he had her.

“I have to do this,” she declared, her brow heavy. 

“I know,” Sandor sighed, pulling her closer. “Just wish you didn’t.”

 

* * *

Casterly Rock was known as an impregnable fortress, but she knew there was always a way in. Arya walked around the town in its shadow, watching the people that came and went from its gates. With the help of a young boy’s face from her pack, she posed as a low-born, dirty boy and skirted the side streets, watching the City Watch from the shadows. 

She went down to the docks, passing the brothels and taverns, meandering the streets on the lookout for anything interesting. An older man was whistling loudly as he docked a small boat. Arya watched him from behind a stack of crates, peering through the empty slats as he walked up the galley and headed towards the tavern.

The one thing she hadn’t explored was the walls along the water, so she snuck towards the dinghy. Memories of getting lost in the corridors beneath the Red Keep at King’s Landing came to mind and she recalled finally getting out through a sewer tunnel. Perhaps Casterly Rock was set up similarly. She made quick work of the ropes and before long was rowing her way out into the black abyss of the harbor, keen to stay close to the rocks. 

As she rowed, she looked up at the towering mass of rock that seemed to stretch up forever. This was the closest she’d been to Cersei since she escaped King’s Landing. This was the closest she’d been to finally getting revenge for her father’s death. She floated along the water for a moment as she gripped her sword underneath her cloak. 

Soon. 

 

* * *

It was late when she finally got back to their room at the inn. The fire burned low in the hearth as she shut the door, finding Sandor dozing in the bed. Arya felt a tug in her chest as she watched him for a moment.

“Mmm, wolf-girl,” he said groggily. “Thought you’d gotten some sense and sailed west without me.” 

Arya smiled as she undid her cloak and sword belt. “Never.”

Toeing off her boots, she crawled into the bed beside him as he pulled her close beneath the covers. She rested her head in the crook of his arm and for a moment just laid there with her eyes closed, listening to his heart beat. She could fall asleep like this for the rest of her days. 

“Find anything?” he said after a few minutes. His hand trailed along her hip, finding her skin beneath her tunic. 

“There is a small opening in the rock on the north side of the cliff, we’ll have to steal a boat to get there,” she said, running her fingers through the thick, dark hair on his chest. “I went inside, it’s a sewer entrance but looks like it was specifically built to ferry unwanted guests through.”

“Unwanted guests?”

“Wasn’t Tyrion Lannister known for his pursuit of unfavorable women?”

“Aye, Cersei never shut up about it,” he recalled bitterly. That was a time of his life he didn’t wish to relive, and yet they edged closer and closer to those memories with each step they took.

“At the end of the tunnel, there was a ladder that led up to a chamber. In the chamber was a bed and such, but there was also another ladder that I didn’t go up. But it must lead up into the rest of the castle,” Arya mused.

“You got a better sense of what we’re going to do?”

Arya shook her head, giving him a sheepish grin. “Still playing it by ear.”

“I was thinking,” Sandor started, sitting up on his elbows. “Gregor looked pretty damned dead last I saw him.”

“So, we don’t need to worry about him?”

“No. He was _undead_.”

“Like a wight?”

“No… I think Cersei’s crackpot maester did something to him,” Sandor frowned. 

“So steel won’t kill him, is what you’re saying.”

“Might not.”

“The only thing that kills the dead other than Valyrian steel is dragon glass and fire,” she pointed out. “And I lost both my dragon glass and my Valyrian daggers in the storm. Do you have either?”

“No,” Sandor made a face. Fire still bothered him. To think he’d have to kill his brother with the same weapon he’d used to ruin his face and his life was a bit too poetic. The gods really were cunts.

“I could go alone,” she offered.

“No,” he growled. “I’m not letting you run into the lion’s den without help.”

Arya raised a brow. “I _had_ intended to do it alone at one point, if you recall.”

“Aye, and then you ran into me,” Sandor pulled her close. 

“And then I ran into you,” she repeated, pressing a kiss to his collarbone. It had been hard for her to accept her feelings for him, after the loss of her family, of Gendry, of Nymeria. For reasons she didn’t understand he wanted to be around her, wanted to keep her safe, to give himself to her. And soon enough, they would sail west and start a new life together.

“We do it together,” he murmured into her hair and she couldn’t help but smile. 

 

* * *

Arya and Sandor made their way through the streets towards the stable across town. In the evening they would depart from the docks for the tunnel beneath Casterly Rock. But for now, Arya needed to check on Meria, who had been boarded for much longer than intended.

“Almost gave her up, been waiting for over a month now,” the stable master was saying as he led them down the row of stalls to where her mare was. It was quiet in the stable, not many horses and no one other than the old man.

“Ran into some trouble in the mountains,” she muttered as she saw Meria’s head pop out over the stall door. She nickered restlessly.

“Was it about the time of that real bad storm? Your girl fell ill shortly after the storm passed through here. Nasty thing it was. This’n got so bad I thought I’d have to put her out of her misery. Took her two weeks to get better.”

Arya made a face, looking up at Sandor. She felt connected to the horse but didn’t realize the horse felt connected to her as well. Approaching the mare, she felt her heart swell at the proximity to the beast.

“Hey girl,” she rubbed her muzzle, feeding her a handful of oats before leaning in to hug the horse’s chest. She was warm and strong, much like Sandor, and she felt at peace almost immediately. Thoughts of vengeance and fire and death seemed to leave her as she listened to the horse’s heart beat. 

“Can you board her for a few more days? Maybe a week. We have some business here in town, then we’ll be on our way,” Sandor asked, digging through the bag of coins he’d pulled from his boot. 

“’s no problem at all,” the old man said, taking the coins with a toothy smile. 

“Do you know of any ship’s leaving port heading west?” Arya asked, looking over from her place against Meria’s chest.

The old man frowned. “There’s only one ship that does that trip. Interesting stories coming from those men,” he chuckled. “It costs a pretty penny though. Look for the Nocturne, it’s a big black ship with a crescent moon on its blue sail. It’ll take you where you want to go.” 

Sandor nodded his thanks and the old man left them, letting them know he’d be outside if they needed anything. He turned back to see Arya still against the mare’s chest. Soon enough it would be the three of them, heading into the unknown. 

“‘m gonna go book that passage.”

“I’ll meet you back at the inn,” Arya called over her shoulder.

Sandor felt uneasy. Walking to her, he turned her around and bent to kiss her deeply, grabbing the back of her neck and her waist to pull her close. Arya wrapped her arms around his neck and he picked her up to set her on the doorway to Meria’s stall. She straddled him as he kissed her as though it would be their last. When finally they broke away, he still held her close, his arms wrapped around her tightly. 

His eyes were sad when he looked at her, their foreheads pressed together, both breathless. Arya’s small hands were at his chest, one coming up to hold his face on the scared side. Her eyes were bright, but also sorrowful. 

“Arya,” her name tumbled roughly from his lips as though he’d never said it before. It was heavy with something more than lust. 

Sandor looked around the stable, and when he saw and heard no one, he picked her up, her legs wrapping around his waist, and laid her down on the bales of hay in the corner. 

The hay poked through her cloak, stabbing at the soft flesh of her rear once she’d removed her trousers. It wasn’t clean and it wasn’t comfortable, but he needed her. She needed him. Sandor held her tight as he made love to her; complicated, messy, desperate love. 

In these moments everything stopped. Nothing mattered to him except her. He dwarfed her and that just made him want to protect her more, to see that she was safe and happy for the rest of their lives. In a few short days they would be onto their next adventure, a new chapter in their lives. Together.

 

* * *

He sat next to her on the bales as she slipped her boots back on. Looking over at her, his brow furrowed. 

He opened his mouth. And closed it. Then opened it again, before closing it once more. 

“What?” She raised a thick brow as she noticed his confused expression. 

“I…” What was he even trying to say? Sandor lowered his head, looking at the wood floor between his knees. He watched as a bug crawled across the stray bits of hay that were scattered over the knotty boards.

“I’ve had a whole life of shit, up until now.” He looked at her out of the corner of his eye. He felt like a fool, like a fucking green boy who’d never spoken to a woman before.

“And even since that day at the inn, there have been some shit moments,” he admitted with a small grin as he looked back down to the floor. “But there have been more good moments since I laid eyes on you again than the whole rest of my miserable life.”

Sandor frowned, looking over at her. “I guess what I’m trying to say wolf-girl, is there’s a whole ‘nother life waiting on that ship, and…”

She wasn’t looking at him, her eyes were fixed forward, her shoulders stiff. He let out a dark chuckle as he thought about what she meant to him now, how he’d come so close to losing her just a few short weeks ago. Nothing in the world was as important to him as she was, he had realized then, and now he was letting the most important thing in the world to him walk right into danger.

“I’m sick of the shit bits, but if they’re with you, I don’t much care. I want it all, as long as it’s with you. Whether that’s exploring the world, or settling some place, maybe even with a pup or two if you want… that’s the life I’m looking forward to, the one with you, without any worry about the shit that’s happened here.” 

Arya picked at the hay bale she sat on. Flashes of her past came to her. People she’d loved. People who’d died. He kept talking of creating good memories, but he didn’t have many good memories. He didn’t know what it felt like to lose everything. Every good memory she had was ripped from her grasp, leaving her heart bleeding. 

“Why are you telling me this right now?” she asked quietly, unsure if she was angry or sad.

“I don’t know what we’re getting into and I wanted you to know, at least once.”

She looked over at him, a twisted expression on her face that he couldn’t quite read. 

“Something to look forward to, I suppose,” she said at last, giving him a wry smile.

“Aye, something to look forward to.” 

 

* * *

The harbor was quiet at this hour, when men had left the taverns for the company of a whore’s bed, leaving their guard down. No moon shone this evening, the perfect scenario to get them into the holdfast undercover. 

Their passage was booked on the Nocturne, which left in a week’s time for ports to the west. Sandor felt a sense of adventure and excitement he hadn’t experienced since he was a child. He didn’t care where they ended up, whether it was hot or cold, sunny or rainy, as long as it was with her. 

Sandor pushed on the oars blindly, following her direction as they made their way along the black coast. His senses were dulled, only the sound of the oars creaking and the gentle splash of the water on the boat’s side told him he was still moving. But she knew where they were going.

When she told him to stop, that this was it, he thought she must have been lost, but he rowed the boat up to the wall. She jumped out of the boat and he thought for sure she would sink, but the water only came up to her shins. 

“Can’t light a torch and risk being seen,” she explained as she waited for him at the tunnel’s entrance. 

Sandor stepped from the boat and watched the dark shape disappear into the black abyss as it went out with the tide. They were stuck on Casterly Rock now. No going back.


	18. the calm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inside Casterly Rock, final preparations are made. Arya gets a surprise.

 

**seventeen. the calm**

_Give me all your love now  
_ _'Cause for all we know  
_ _We might be dead by tomorrow_

_I can't go on wasting my time_  
_Adding scars to my heart  
_ _'Cause all I hear is  
_ _"I'm not ready now"_

_— We Might Be Dead By Tomorrow, Soko_

 

* * *

The room where Tyrion Lannister brought his whores was in surprisingly good shape, once they’d found a few candles to light. They were still deep below the keep, below cellars and dungeons, where the damp air held a chill. 

Sounds echoed on the cavernous walls of the hidden room. On the floor was a large feather bed, plenty large enough for the escapades the half-man saw fit to have. A large chest of drawers was against one wall, where a wash basin and a large jug sat. 

“Imp had good taste,” Sandor noted as he popped the cork from a bottle of wine that was sitting on a bureau covered in a fine sheen of dust. 

“I don’t want to think about the… fun… he had here,” Arya made a face as she sat her pack on the floor near the feather bed. 

“Let’s focus on killing the bitch upstairs, then,” Sandor said, looking up at the ladder. 

“Soon enough,” Arya said solemnly, following his gaze.

 

* * *

Casterly Rock was a labyrinth of tunnels, stairs and elevator shafts that took Arya a few days to figure out. It had taken her hours to get to the sunlight from where they were in Tyrion’s hidden room. Levels stacked on top of each other: cellars, dungeons, more cellars, kennels which Sandor had told her were once manned by the Cleganes, then lower bedrooms and halls, before she had finally seen light and came to the first of many tiered courtyards. When they left, she needed a plan—there was no way in the chaos they could run all the way back down to the sea-level. There wasn’t a boat for them there anymore, any how. 

So she watched the gates, disguised as a young boy, learning the timing as guards changed shifts. There weren’t many people in Casterly Rock, given its massive size. She mostly saw just a few guards and servants, and at one point had caught a glimpse of the Mountain from across a courtyard. 

One day, the first morning she had come into the courtyard, she watched Cersei from her spot across the yard, behind an intricately carved stone wall. The Lannister woman’s face was still as severe as ever, but then, suddenly, it got soft and she smiled. Arya’s eyes darted across the yard where Cersei was looking and watched as a septa walked out with a young girl. She was a giggling bundle of energy with yellow curls tied back with red ribbons. 

Arya watched as the small child ran to where Cersei had knelt in the grass. She watched as the mother wrapped her arms around her child. Watched as the little girl smiled into her shoulder and hugged her back, completely content and care free. Arya felt her stomach twist in knots at the scene in front of her. A scene she so desperately wished she could go back and relive with her own mother, no matter how much she had been yelled at. 

What sort of monster would she be if she left this child alone in the world? She would be no better than Cersei Lannister or Walder Frey, destroying an innocent child’s family. Arya slumped behind the wall with a shaky sigh, feeling the grit of the stone floor under her palms. 

But Cersei had been the mastermind of her father’s death. She’d tormented Sansa, treating her like a cat’s plaything. She’d caused so much pain to the Starks, it couldn’t go unchecked. Cersei had to pay for what she had done. 

Arya clenched her fists tightly, watching as the skin over her knuckles turned white as it stretched over the bone. The little girl wouldn’t be thrown out into a war-torn country to fend for herself. She wouldn’t be sought out to be killed or sold off to some lord as a high-born pawn. She wouldn’t have to starve and hide from threat of rape as she fled. Casterly Rock would still be her home; she would still have a septa and servants and warm meals and clean clothes. 

It was an unfortunate hiccup in her plan, but as long as the child was not around when Cersei and the Mountain were dealt with, Arya was okay with what needed to be done. She came to her feet and from her place still behind the wall, watched as Cersei carried the little girl towards her. Gooseflesh blossomed on her skin as the woman walked past her, not giving her the courtesy of a glance. Why should she? Arya was but a servant boy. But the little girl looked at her from over her mother’s shoulder. Green eyes seemed to pierce through her black soul as she disappeared down the hall, smiling at Arya the whole time. 

Swallowing the lump in her throat, Arya spun on her feet and ran back towards their hideout. 

_I’m so sorry, child. But a debt is owed._

 

* * *

“No.”

“Why not? It could really help us,” Arya pleaded.

“I said no. Keep those fucking things away from me,” Sandor growled from the chair he had moved to the other side of the chamber, as far from her as possible. 

Arya let out an exasperated sigh. In front of her, spread out on the bed, were the six faces she had pulled from her leather satchel. The disguise she’d used for the last few days would be too conspicuous, she needed a new one for tomorrow.

“It probably won’t even work,” she mused, fingering one of the faces: a man in his late twenties. 

“Good. Let’s not find out,” Sandor took a drink of the wine, one of the last swallows left in the bottle. 

“How do you propose to get close to your brother if everyone in Westeros recognizes your face?”

“You said there aren’t that many people up there,” Sandor shrugged. “I’ll just cut them down.”

Arya rolled her eyes as she picked up the face with both hands. Slowly, cautiously, as though she were approaching a frightened animal, she walked over to where Sandor sat. She stopped in front of him, watching the sneer on his face as he looked at the face in her hands.

“How does it not rot?” 

“I put a potion on it,” she ran her fingers over the bridge of the face’s nose as she examined it.

“What does it feel like?” 

Arya paused for a moment, chewing on her lip as she thought. 

“You can sense there are other memories in your head when you put the face on, but until something triggers them, you feel pretty much the same.” She moved to straddle his lap, holding the face between them. Instinctively, his hands went to her waist.

“When you put on the face of a man, do you…?” Sandor looked down, running a hand along her thigh with a stupid smirk.

Arya eyed him incredulously. “If you’re asking if I get a dick, no, I don’t get a dick, Sandor,” she sighed, holding the face up next to his. 

“Good.”

“So are you going to let me put this on, or not?” Her dark brows were raised in anticipation.

Sandor regarded her hesitantly, shifting his eyes from her to the mask she held. He knew she was right—even if he didn’t know any of the people in the Rock, his face was known throughout the country and with Cersei’s threat as they traveled towards the mountains, they would be on high alert for someone who matched his description. 

“Fine,” he sighed.

There was a maniacal glint in her eye the moment the word left his lips and he immediately regretted it. But before he could protest, she was laying the face over his, smoothing the skin against his where she could. At first, he didn’t understand how it could possibly work as it literally felt like he had a mask on. But within moments he felt a warm sensation and a tingling along his jaw where his beard seemed to disappear into his skin. It didn’t burn, but it definitely wasn’t pleasant either. 

If the look on her face was anything to go by, it must have worked. Arya wasn’t one to smile much these days but in that moment she had a childish grin on her face as though something she’d long believed to be but a tale had come to life. She slid off his lap and stood back, admiring her work.

Slowly he raised his hands to his face. First, he noticed the thick hair of his beard was gone; in it’s place a strong but smooth jaw. He felt the shape of his new nose; it was narrower than his own as well as more pointed than round. But the thing that truly bothered him was the feel of his cheek. The cheek where he had bore the brand his brother had given him long ago. There was nothing but smooth skin, with a normal ear and brow and hair that laid in place as though it hadn’t been permanently seared off. It wasn’t him, he knew that, but a part of him, without even seeing what he looked like, never wanted to take the face off again.

“Mirror,” he demanded with a rasp, blinking up at her. 

Arya handed him the small hand mirror that had been in one of the drawers of the chest. She watched him with a morbid curiosity, as though he were an experiment.

“Your eyes are blue,” she noted with a bizarre, fascinated grin. 

Sandor held the mirror up and examined himself. It was an odd feeling knowing he was staring at himself, but not seeing his own face. His fingers involuntarily went back to the skin and sure enough, it was real. 

“I’m not an ugly fucker anymore,” he mused. “Look like a sodding green boy, but at least I have a proper face.”

“You’re not ugly. Don’t think you’re going to keep that on forever,” Arya chided, coming closer and moving the mirror out of the way. Her small fingers pulled at his skin under his chin and he felt a weird tugging sensation before the face was in her hands again. 

“All you have to do to remove it is pull at your own skin, along the edges of your face,” she explained as she put it back in the bag. “In case you have to remove it and we’ve been separated.” 

The idea of being separated anymore than they had already been in this horrible place made his stomach twist painfully. He didn’t want to be away from her ever again, he thought as he stood to follow her across the room. 

Arya let out a small yelp as he grabbed her arm and spun her around, wrapping two large arms around her and lifting her to his level. 

“Not planning on getting separated. From here on out, we do this together,” he said quietly, pressing his forehead against hers as he held her. _Both in Westeros and beyond._

Arya wrapped her legs around his waist, putting her small hands on either side of his face and pressing her lips to his as though it were the last drop of water in Westeros. Equally thirsty, he stepped forward to the bed and knelt, laying her down gently. 

Her long fingers ran over the scarred side of his face, an act which had once caused him to flinch and grab her wrist in protest. But now, as he stared into her wolfish grey eyes, he would let her touch his face for the rest of their days, as long as she looked at him like she was right now. 

“And you’re not an ugly fucker,” she said quietly. “I love your face.” 

She pulled him closer and pressed gentle kisses along the scarred surface, causing him to close his eyes as he wrapped his arms tightly around her. Slowly her mouth found his, as she nipped gently and grazed his tongue with hers languidly. The taste of her on his lips had grown familiar awhile ago, but the familiarity didn’t mean he desired it any less. No, it only served to fuel his hunger.

In the morning they would walk into the lion’s den, into unknowns neither of them could predict. It was Cersei Lannister, after all, and Sandor wouldn’t put it past her to already know they were here. This could all be an elaborate trap and they could be walking into certain death. It also could be as simple as sneaking in with the faces of others and walking out like nothing happened. He didn’t bet on the latter, that much he knew.

For now though, he did his best to only focus on the small hands that impatiently pulled their clothes off, feeling her warm skin against his. He tried to remember every subtle curve to her body, every scar and freckle. His lips trailed over her skin, moving from her neck to her shoulders, her breasts to the puffy scars on her stomach as her hands tangled in his hair. Before he could go further, she pulled him back to her mouth.

Arya couldn’t explain the fierce desire to be as close as she could possibly be to Sandor as she pushed him back on the bed and took him inside her. It wasn’t until their bodies were pressed together like an intricate puzzle that she truly felt whole. Their movements were slow, each savoring every sensation they created for the other. 

Her hands pressed against his broad chest as his dug into her hips. In the few months they had been traveling together, their bodies had perfected this sensual dance as though they’d known it all along. It felt like a lifetime, their few short months traveling together. She wasn’t sure if it was their shared history years ago in the Riverlands or some stronger force that connected them, but if she were to use words like soul mate, it felt right and true. 

The moment the thought entered her head though, she felt a twinge of regret. Everything good in her life had been pulled away from her for good—why should this be any different? With the danger they were heading towards, these could be their last moments together, she thought bitterly. 

She would make them count, just like Sandor had told her months ago when Nymeria had passed. Arya would slow down and make this not only a good memory, but perhaps the best memory she had. 


	19. what you wanted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya and Sandor come face to face with Cersei and The Mountain at last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is basically a double chapter, you're welcome. :)

 

**eighteen. what you wanted**

_Trust you'll take the right to leave me  
_ _Waiting under dark clouds for the rain  
_ _Praying lightning strikes a change  
_ _As history gets lost and  
_ _As I took that final breath I felt alive  
_ _Meeting god to stand in line, all alone_

_—Kissing You Goodbye, The Used_

 

* * *

Arya Stark’s dark head laid against her lover’s chest as she absently ran her finger over a scar hidden beneath the thick, dark hair that covered it. Lit only by a few candles scattered about, the room was dark despite it being mid-day. In a few short hours they would begin their journey upstairs, leaving behind the imp’s hidden chamber at last. And a few hours after that, they would be on their way to the stables to get Meria, and then head off to the docks to find the _Nocturne_. Arya smiled to herself as she thought about what awaited them. For the first time in a long time, she was genuinely happy and excited about what the future held. 

“What do you think we’ll find?”

“Hm?” Sandor looked down at her with heavily lidded, post-coital eyes. 

“When we get to the first port—what do you think will be there?”

“Nothing, could be.”

Arya sat up on her elbows to shoot him an incredulous look. “You don’t actually believe there’s nothing there, do you?” 

“What’s it matter?” Sandor asked as he pulled her closer, pressing his lips to her forehead. “It could be the end of the world, could be blue, three-eyed men who want to kill us, could be boring and ordinary—it’s the journey that matters to me, with you. The destination matters little.”

Arya pressed a soft kiss to his lips before laying down on the bed beside him with a sigh. She watched as the rusted iron chandelier that hung above them swayed ever so slightly. She chewed on her lip as she drifted off into thoughts of what was next. If it was boring and ordinary, would that be so bad after everything they’d endured? 

 

* * *

By the time they reached the first courtyard, any daylight that was there when they’d left their hideout had long given way to night. Disguised as another servant boy, so she could more easily maneuver without the hindrance of the skirts of a handmaiden, Arya led the way through the darkening corridors towards Cersei’s chambers. Sandor took in the route, trying to add definition to the poorly drawn map Arya had made the night before for him. She may have been a talented fighter, but drawing straight lines was not in her favor. Cersei’s chambers were on the opposite side of the keep from the gate, but there were a few routes they could take to get out, hopefully unseen.

Sandor followed closely behind her, though it didn’t look anything like her. A mop of blonde hairhad replaced her brown locks and with a slightly wider build, Arya’s body seemed to transform into a completely different person. How much of her was lost when she put a face on? Was it like Beric Dondarrion, losing pieces of himself each time? He didn’t feel any different with another man’s face over his, though he did seem shorter. 

The shadows created by the braziers lining the hall seemed to dance and reach out for them as they made their way closer to their target. It felt like it continued on forever, until Arya finally paused at a junction with another corridor. She held up a small hand, signaling him to stop as she peaked around the corner. 

“It’s your brother,” Arya whispered as she turned back to him, pulling the face of the boy from her own. 

Sandor felt his heart in his throat, sticking like a rock as he clutched the hilt of his sword with a white knuckled grip. He met her glance hesitantly—even now, he wanted to pick her up, toss her over his shoulder and hurry out of here without incident. Arya’s small hand came up to his oddly smooth, hairless cheek, and pulled at the face covering his own. With the peculiar tugging sensation, he blinked to see her holding the face out for him to store away.

“You’ll need this later—I can get out without being recognized, but you,” she smirked up at him. “Everyone in the seven kingdoms knows that damned face.”

“Aye, and soon enough they won’t ever have to see it again,” Sandor concurred, releasing his tight sword grip to bend and bring her close. 

He knew they only had a moment; anyone could walk down the hall and notice them, but Sandor had to kiss her once more before chaos erupted around them. With two large hands on either side of her heart-shaped face he kissed her deeply, pulling her tight against him. Arya clutched at his shirt as she sighed into his mouth, savoring every moment their lips touched. She thought back to their first kiss and how surprised and scared she had been when he’d pressed his lips to hers after the first kill she had made since the Long Night. Giving into that temptation, the desire for closeness with another, had been difficult, and still was, but she was ready for a new life, a new way of thinking. 

With a gasp, they broke free, breathless as they held each other close. Warm brown and cool grey gazed upon the other, as Arya ran her hand over the scarred side of his face. 

“I love you, you know,” she whispered, barely loud enough to hear it herself. The words were foreign on her tongue and felt like fire, capable of such destruction with so little effort. Arya felt a dampness on her cheek and realized she was crying. 

“Aye, I know,” he said softly, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Sandor’s thumb ran over her cheek, wiping away the stray tear as he leaned closer to kiss her once more. “I love you, wolf-girl.”

When they broke once more, he found himself not wanting to let her go. Grasping her arms by the elbows, he held her for a moment more, lingering on the warmth of her skin through the thin tunic she wore, before reluctantly releasing her. Arya grabbed the collar of his shirt and pulled him down to her, pressing one last chaste kiss on his lips before turning back to look around the corner.

As he hunched over her to look around the corner, his fingers went to her hair, feeling its softness once more. He remembered when she’d always had it pinned up, and how badly he had wanted to touch it. It felt like home, warm and soft on his calloused finger tips. An impish smirk graced her lips as she looked up at him. 

“Are you ready?”

“Always.”

Setting her shoulders back with a sigh, Arya moved around the corner towards where Gregor Clegane stood watch outside Cersei’s chambers. The Mountain didn’t look towards her until Sandor rounded the corner, his hand readied on his sword as he stalked towards his brother. Sandor took a few longer strides to move around Arya, blocking her as they came to a stop only a couple yards from the rotted sentinel. Gregor turned towards Sandor, his large, stiff hand on his sword. 

“Remember me, brother?” Sandor growled, looking over the half-dead beast in front of him.“Told you I’d come for you.”

Clad in burgundy and black armor with gilded gold lions, The Mountain stood a few heads taller than Arya and even a full head taller than Sandor. Arya hadn’t set her eyes on him since Harrenhal, but this did not look like the same man. Beneath the black gilded helm he wore, she could see the purple, bloated flesh of his cheeks and neck, and the bulging, red eyes that seemed to stare impassively at his brother. Gregor was assessing a threat, not a family member. 

Before she knew it, the ring of steel leaving its sheath echoed through the expansive corridor and Sandor was charging towards his brother with a deep growl. He fought completely opposite of her style, preferring to charge in with warning, instead of skirting the edges and waiting for the right time to make a move. Arya watched as their swords met in a flash of sparks, harder than she thought two swords could hit. The monster that once was Sandor’s brother moved with deceiving agility as they danced across the stone floors, cutting and blocking with both ease and force.

Just as she was about to make a move to help him, she felt a stabbing pain as a knife was buried deep into her side. Searing agony ripped through her as she was grabbed from behind, a large, armored arm going around her shoulders and clasping tight around her neck. She clawed at the armor to no avail, her legs barely on the ground as she grunted helplessly.

Arya kicked and wracked her body against the guard who held her tightly. From the corner of her eye, she could see he had a long sword, but no weapon in hand suitable for such close combat. While she pulled at his arm to get free with one hand, her other reached around trying to find a dirk at her hip. She watched as three other men moved past her towards Sandor but she couldn’t manage to get a warning out before they were on him.

Sandor rounded on the men, wasting no time charging to cut them down. They weren’t green boys, for certain, but they were no match for him, even at his age. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Arya struggling against one of the men and his glance allowed one of the men to get a hit with the flat side of his blade into his shoulder. 

Hissing as the pain radiated across his arm and back, Sandor turned towards the man, swinging his sword low, right through his knee caps, a crimson spray of blood decorating the stone cobbles. Twisting in place, he ran the sword backwards through the man’s neck, cutting him off mid-yell before yanking the blade out and turning back to parry his brother’s swing. He managed an elbow to the face of another man, breaking his nose and likely part of his face with a loud crack. The man stumbled back in agony, giving Sandor enough time to dodge another one of Gregor’s heavy swings. He happened a glance at Arya again and saw she was still struggling but had almost grasped her dirk. 

Arya had tried clawing at his face, raising a heel to his crotch and an elbow to his stomach all to no avail. Her small fingers reached desperately, blindly, for the blade she knew she had at her side as she gasped for air. Finally she felt the cool bone hilt of the dirk at her hip and in one swift movement, pulled it from it’s sheath and brought it up to jab him in the eye. His grip loosened as he reached for the bloody hole where his eye once was. 

Swiftly Arya turned on him, bringing the blade across his neck in a fluid motion as her eyes went dark with bloodlust. She watched as he fell to the ground, blood splattering onto her brown leather boots. The surge of pain came back to her side as her adrenaline settled and she looked down to see a blossom of red staining half of one side of her tunic. _Fuck_. Nothing she could do about it right now.

Her eyes darted to where Sandor was still fighting off two of the men as well as Gregor. Baring her teeth, she stepped deftly over the dead bodies and came up behind one of the armor-clad men. One thing she had come to find renewed pleasure in was the feel of the blade sliding into flesh, between bone and viscera—there was a particular resistance as it went in, but it slid out with ease, felling her foe. The soldier hadn’t seen her coming, and now he laid in a puddle of his own blood. 

In the chaos, Sandor was pushed further down the hall, sparing with one of the guards as Arya found herself face to face with Gregor. He was massive up close, towering over her at what felt like fifteen heads, and wasted no time coming towards her. She stumbled backwards towards where she had come, caught off guard by his size and speed. Pulling her sword, she brought it in front of her as she kept stepping backwards, watching his arm for signs he would swing. Before that could happen though, she tripped over the dead man who had been strangling her and she fell backwards with a heavy thud. Her sword clattered across the floor with a mocking ring, coming to a skittering halt far out of reach. _Shit._

Pain radiated through her left side as she made contact with the hard, cold stone floor. Involuntarily she grabbed her blood soaked side as she winced, pushing herself backwards away from The Mountain as he towered over her. Blood covered the stone, causing her hand to slip, giving him just enough time to reach a large, armored hand down to grab her around the neck. 

With a deep rumbling in his throat, Gregor lifted Arya off the ground as she desperately clawed at his hands. His grip was strong, painful and unrelenting. Arya’s grey eyes widened in panic as her hands began fighting with less vigor as her vision got hazy. Distantly she could hear the clang of swords and the scrape of boots across the floor as she pulled against the concrete grip around her neck. She gasped for air, finding little relief as his thick fingers clenched tighter. 

Arya kicked at him, barely making contact at the distance he held her. What little contact she made was of no use and only served to wear her out even quicker. She looked straight at him, watching the black veins around his bulging, red eyes. It was the only thing she could see as things began to dim around her. The sensation wasn’t far different from when she’d been caught in the rain storm, except somehow she now truly felt helpless and panicked. 

The possibility of being killed by The Mountain hadn’t crossed her mind, which she now cursed herself for. Arya always assumed Sandor would take care of him while she took care of Cersei, but the plan was all mucked up now. As her vision continued to grow dark, her thoughts drifted to her family, but as she looked closer it wasn’t her siblings standing before her. And the man and woman standing at the center were not her parents. It was her and Sandor, with a small brood of their own children, tall and wolfish with grey-brown eyes and thick, dark shocks of hair. They were dressed in traditional northern attire, with thick furs around their shoulders and dark cloaks flowing around them. Sandor held her close to his side and she held a small bundle in her arms, absently cooing at it. Winterfell was in the background, no longer the pile of rubble it was today and it was flawless in all its dreary grayness. The scene was perfect, and would never happen, she thought with a distant sob. 

Winter came, and now the wolf must retreat with summer. 

She felt herself fall, sinking further into the darkness and just when she thought it was truly over, Arya hit the stone floor in an unceremonious pile. Her throat was on fire as she gasped for a few life-saving breaths, her bloodied hand coming up to the blossoming bruises that now marred her skin. Looking up as her vision came back slowly, she saw a sword lodged through Gregor’s unprotected knee from behind and saw Sandor, covered in blood, standing behind him with his own sword in hand, his broad chest heaving in anticipation.

Arya didn’t know how to describe the sound that erupted from Gregor’s throat as he turned towards his brother. It wasn’t a yell, but it wasn’t a scream, and it most definitely didn’t sound human, not like anything she’d heard before. The hand that had been clenching her throat reached around and ripped the sword out, sparks dancing on the stone as he threw it to the ground as hard as he could. 

Sandor moved towards his brother, slashing and cutting, forcing Arya to scramble against the wall as they danced down the hall. She winced and grabbed her side again. This was going to take a maester to heal, for sure. Gritting through the pain, she came to her feet with effort. Down the hall, a melody of steel and battle cries echoed on the cold walls and Arya realized she was alone, mere steps from Cersei’s chambers. 

With renewed purpose, Arya heaved herself away from the wall and towards the door.

The room was dimly lit, she noticed as she slid through the smallest opening she could make. She bolted the door as quietly as she could, but if Cersei still had ears, she would have heard the commotion outside. Arya turned, looking for the Lannister woman. Her chambers were surprisingly modest in size, but decorated with heavy drapes along columns and walls, the gilding glistening in the candle light of the iron candelabras that stood guard beside a few of the pillars. 

A small hall separated two sides of the room, with a window covered in etched glass at the end that overlooked one of the many courtyards. Arya had seen the window from below, and it was only a single story up, which would make an escape fairly easy if needed. To one side of the hall was a large bed, hidden away behind thick stone columns and dark drapes. Opposite it was a seating area with plush chaises and a large wooden desk littered with a menagerie of items. 

Sitting at the desk, was the woman she had been searching for. Arya’s breath hitched in her throat and her dark brow furrowed deeply as she took a step towards Cersei Lannister.

“I figured that commotion out there could only be caused by a wolf and her feral mutt,” Cersei spat as she stared at Arya. “Have you killed Ser Gregor, then?”

“Not yet,” the words were low in her throat as she stepped between the columns. Arya wondered how Cersei could see in such dim light. 

Cersei came to her feet and moved towards a bureau to one side of the desk. Arya watched her with intensity, cautious of the Lannister woman’s intentions. Long, delicate fingers ran over an array of vessels that glowed green on the piece of furniture. 

“Well, that’s good then. Perhaps I won’t have need for these,” she held one of the vessels gently in her hand, turning back to Arya. “Your dog is still deathly afraid of fire, no?”

Arya frowned, unsure what the woman was getting at. 

“Do you know what this is, child? This is wildfire, the same substance used against King’s Landing when your dog tucked his tail and ran away, leaving my Joffrey unguarded,” Cersei frowned, placing the jar back on the chest gingerly. “I almost killed my other son, Tommen, that night. I would have never allowed Stannis to put his hands on him.”

Arya was growing impatient. “Why are you telling me all of this?”

“Did you know I have another child?” Cersei clasped both of her hands in front of her.

“Yes, I saw her in the courtyard the other day.”

“Ah, so you have been here for some time,” she nodded to herself, a smirk gracing her thin lips as she moved towards the hall with rigid grace. “I had my suspicions on when you might arrive; after our threats against the Hound near Golden Tooth I figured you would have been here much sooner.”

“What does it matter? I’m here now, and I don’t care about your child,” Arya growled, her eyes following Cersei as she stopped in the middle of the hall. 

“No, you wouldn’t, would you? What reason should you have to care about my dear daughter?” 

“It’s your fault my father is dead, that’s all I care about.”

“So you’ll continue the cycle of leaving children parentless in the world?” Cersei’s face was unreadable.

“Your daughter will have all the trappings of a wonderful life,” Arya snapped, stepping towards her. “You left me without a father and ultimately your family was responsible for my brother and mother’s deaths as well, forcing me into exile—forced into manual labor at the hands of your father and his guards, with threat of rape and hardly a thing to eat, for years. Joffrey was a bastard and my father knew it—and you had him killed!”

Her hand reached for the hilt of her sword in rage before she remembered it was still lying in the hallway amongst the blood-stained stones. Arya’s nostrils flared as she made her way towards Cersei. Two hands would have to do.

“It’s time you met the Many-Faced God, Cersei Lannister,” Arya threatened as she stalked towards her. 

Cersei sneered at her as she grabbed one of the heavy, iron candelabras and shoved it towards her. Arya avoided it with ease as the woman ducked behind a column, moving towards her desk. From the corner of her eye Arya saw the bottom of one of the drapes catch fire but was almost hit in the head with a heavy book Cersei had thrown at her, ducking at the last moment. Arya lunged towards the desk, eyeing an ornate letter opener. Grabbing the long, sharp instrument, she turned her attentions back to Cersei, her eyes dark with rage. 

Arya could feel the heat of the flames on the drapes behind her and saw Cersei look over at them in a moment of panic, before reaching for one of the vessels on the cabinet. _No!_ Taking it carefully in her hands, she lifted her arm and Arya watched in what felt like slow motion as the vessel went over her head and into the growing fire in the hall. 

The wildfire exploded on contact, throwing green flames around the room. Arya ducked behind a column to avoid getting hit, covering her head. The fire was hotter than any she’d felt before and caught wood and fabric alight immediately. Looking up from where she knelt, she saw Cersei running for the door, skirting the flames. 

Baring her teeth in frustration, Arya felt a low growl in her throat as she ran towards the Lannister woman with the letter opener in hand. Smoke began filling the room quicker than Arya had thought possible—whatever substance it truly was, she didn’t fault Sandor for running from King’s Landing when it went up in green flames. As she went to round the corner, she slipped on something wet on the ground and smacked her head into one of the columns with a painful crack. Wine, she smelled; Cersei had split wine on the floor to try and stop her. _Fuck._ Doing her best to shake the throbbing pain, she clamored to her feet as quickly as she could.Arya looked around for the letter opener that had fallen out of her hands when she fell, but quickly aborted looking for it in favor of going back to Plan B, her hands. Everything looked blurry around her as she took a dizzying step and it wasn’t the smoke. 

Arya coughed as she made her way to the door, grabbing Cersei by her now-long blonde hair and yanking viciously. The smoke burned her eyes and the wildfire had taken over both the drapes that lined the hall and the bed to one side. Squinting as the smoke and flames overtook the room, she clung tightly to Cersei as she struggled to free herself. Being several inches shorter than her target, Arya fought Cersei to the ground to get a better hold on her. Kicking her knees out from under her, they toppled to the hard floor, green flames dancing around them, closer and closer. The smoke was oddly thick, even down here and it burned her throat. Coughing was painful, and breathing just brought more smoke into her lungs.

Wrapping her arm around Cersei’s long neck, she pulled tight, holding the woman close to her as she struggled. Arya’s vision was still just as blurry and she fought the urge to vomit. Her head throbbed with a pain she wasn’t sure she had endured before and she found her thoughts fading in and out as she put all her energy into the force around Cersei’s throat. 

Only a few more minutes and they’d be on their way to the harbor, she thought to herself as she coughed again. The smoke was hot and felt like it was burning her insides. All around them green flames burned, taking over any surface that wasn’t stone and only growing angrier. Green and black were all she saw as she felt Cersei’s hands finally go limp against her arm. But just as she thought it was all over, the darkness came over her and Arya cursed the flames and the wine on the floor and the whole damned thing. She should have listened to Sandor, they should have just left and been on their way to a new life. Instead, she’d burn here, her gift for seeking justice for her family. 

 

* * *

In the hall, Sandor wasn’t sure how much longer he could hold off his brother. He would never forgive himself in the seven hells if he was defeated and the Mountain went on to kill Arya. Sandor knew what his brother did to people, and he did not want him to do those things to her. With a growl, Sandor raised his sword to meet his brother’s swing again. 

They had made their way back towards Cersei’s chambers, deftly avoiding the scattered dead bodies on the ground. On more than one occasion Sandor had slid slightly on the pooling blood, but held his ground. From inside the chamber door, he heard a loud explosion and through the crack under the door saw the room glow green. 

_Arya, no…_

Sandor met his brother’s sword again, pushing against his blade with as much force as he could muster. Looking down as he put his whole body behind his sword, he noticed Gregor nearing a puddle of blood. If he could just get him to back up enough…

He lowered himself suddenly, and Gregor slid on the blood beneath his feet, toppling over Sandor onto the ground, giving him just enough time to turn and get his blade into the soft spot between Gregor’s chest plate and helmet. The Mountain let out a gurgling howl, clamoring for Sandor’s sword before swiping at his feet. 

Sandor stepped out of the way, moving above Gregor and ripped his helmet from his head.

“Seven hells, what did they do to you?” 

The flesh where his helmet had been was puss filled and red, with bits of skin peeled back along his bald head. Gregor’s bulging red eyes looked up at him but before he could reach back to grab him, Sandor dropped his sword straight through his skull, squeezing his eyes shut as it sunk in. 

Sandor’s shoulders fell limp for a moment before he opened his eyes to take in the sight of his sword buried in his brother’s face. Many years ago, he had hoped this would finally bring him some peace after all the torment Gregor had caused in his life. But his brother’s death had been taken from him long ago, and this was just another demon to kill like the hundreds, maybe thousands, he had during the Long Night. 

Composing himself, he turned towards the glowing door with trepidation. His feet felt heavy as he approached it, knowing what was on the other side, awaiting him. But if Arya hadn’t come out yet, she was likely in trouble, and he needed to get to her, to get her to safety. The handle was hot, but he grabbed it anyway, feeling the heat burn his skin. His lip twitched slightly, and he tried to open the door, but it did not budge. With force, he pushed his shoulder into it, but still, it did not budge. 

A low, angry growl formed in his throat as he took a step back and shoved all of his weight into the door, cracking it slightly. Immediately his arm throbbed, but a little pain was nothing compared to not reaching her in time. Sandor backed up again and repeated the same move, again and again until the angry green flames from inside made themselves known. 

Smoke billowed out of the room, causing him to shield his face for a moment. Squinting through the shattered wood of the broken door, he could see the room alight with flames of green and orange, dancing and grabbing onto any surface that would take them. On the floor, in the middle of the room, were two motionless figures.

Sandor’s heart caught in his throat and he felt his eyes water, not from the smoke. He went to step into the room, but his feet were heavy as he looked at the flames all around. The feeling of being shoved into the brazier by his now-dead brother flooded back to him, overwhelming him to the point that he stepped back in fear. The smell of burning, acrid flesh that didn’t exist filled his nostrils and he gagged on bile that wasn’t there. 

He had to get to her, though. If nothing else in this world, she was worth walking into the flames for. Arya was worth him facing his biggest fear, if it meant saving her life. Setting his jaw, he pushed through the dangling shards of splintered wood and stepped into the burning room, pulling his tunic over his mouth to help him breath a bit easier. The smoke had escaped with the vacuum of air the door created, but it was still hazy and hotter than he could imagine. 

Making his way to the center of the room, as flames reached out for him and danced at his feet, he came to her side. Kneeling, he pushed Cersei away and pulled Arya into his arms. Cradling her head, he felt a large, wet lump and looked at his hand to see it covered in thick, dark blood. 

“Arya,” he shook her lightly, pulling her close, his other hand wet with the blood soaking her side.

It was too hot and smoky for him to tell if she was still with him. Sandor shook her again gently, coughing from the smoke that still hung in the room. He needed to get them out of here before the rest of the guards finally noticed the flames. The whole ordeal had taken only minutes, long enough for them to do what they needed without much attention. 

Pulling her into his arms, Sandor stood low in the room, ducking the flames as he made his way back out the way he came. Going the opposite way down the hall, he went as quickly as he could, until he found an curtained alcove where he could stop for a moment. Sandor knelt as he cradled Arya in his arms, running a hand gently over her dirtied face. A wet drop landed on her face and he realized he was crying. His thumb went over the scar on her cheek and he smiled a sad smile, his eyes growing wetter. Leaning down, he pressed a kiss to her forehead and found it hard to move away from her. As his lip trembled, Sandor pulled the face from his pocket and placed it on his face to move without much suspicion through the castle. He ripped the curtain from it’s place along the ceiling and wrapped it around himself and her before standing to make his way out of the castle. 

Sandor walked slowly but purposefully towards the gate of Casterly Rock. No one would recognize him, but that didn’t help the fear he felt with every step. Mostly, he realized, the fear was for Arya, who was still limp in his arms. 

When he reached the gate, no guards were there and it was wide open, as Arya had said it would be. Night deliveries, she had told him with a devilish grin and a glint in her grey eyes. Sandor had to see that look again, had to see her smile, hear her soft voice and feel her hand on his face. _I love your face,_ she had told him _._

“Come on, girl. Stay with me, we’ve got the whole world to see together,” he rasped as he rushed from Casterly Rock.


	20. epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What comes next.

_Put this on before reading:_

* * *

 

**EPILOGUE**

 

Sandor had no idea what time it was. Fucking early, he knew that much. The bed was cold beside him, but that didn’t surprise him, not with the noise coming from outside. Sitting up, he scrubbed his face with both hands before coming to his feet, stretching out his tired muscles. He considered grabbing the shirt that hung over the chair beside the bed, but it was already too warm for that, so he made his way outside. 

The sun was hot and somehow already blinding. His heavy brow furrowed as he squinted, letting his brown eyes adjust to the daylight. He didn’t remember Westeros ever being this bright. Ducking under the low doorway, he left their modest farmhouse to see Arya standing in the middle of the yard with her hands on her hips, exasperated as a small boy ran naked with abandon, squealing in delight. Seeing his father only caused him to run faster with the biggest, carefree grin Sandor had ever seen. 

“Ned! I can’t wash you if you keep getting dirty!” Arya sighed, turning to see Sandor in the doorway. 

With a smile, she tossed the rag back in the basin of water with resignation and met him as he sat on a bench near the stable. Meria nickered behind him.

“Aye, girl, I’ll feed you soon enough,” he called over to the mare. 

“Don’t. That horse’ll get fat. She's been fed this morning, let her whine,” Arya shot the horse a glare before coming to stand between Sandor’s legs, pressing a kiss to his forehead as her small hands held his face. 

“Sorry we woke you,” she said as she pulled back to look at him with that impish grin. 

“I’m not,” Sandor smiled, pulling her close to press a deep kiss to her soft, pink lips. Her hands found his chest and held on gently, her nails digging in ever so slightly. Arya nipped at his lip before pulling back with a warm look in her eyes.

Sandor held her face in his hand as she leaned into it, running a thumb over the scar she’d gotten so long ago at that farmhouse in the middle of the Riverlands, when he’d first kissed her, mere days after seeing her for the first time in eight years. 

After exploring in the lands west of Westeros for a year, she had gotten pregnant and they had decided it might be time to settle down, at least for a bit. They found a small town not far from the sea to call home and had been there for three years, though Sandor thought they might need to find a bigger place or build another room, with another little one on the way.

Keeping one hand on her face, his other hand held the swell of her belly as he leaned down to press a kiss to it. One rambunctious, grey-eyed, brown-haired hell-raiser—a Stark if he ever saw one—and another pup on the way. Sandor had no idea life would give him such bounty after everything he had done. His brow furrowed heavily as he looked at her, grabbing her face with both hands as he was overcome with this life—this chance—she’d given him.

“What?” Arya said quietly, a small smile gracing her lips as she tilted her head in his hands.

“I love you,” Sandor murmured as he ran a thumb over her lip, almost sad. 

“I love you more,” she replied, leaning in to kiss him on the nose.

 

* * *

  


The ship creaked lazily as it moved over the open water. Sandor was disoriented at first, suddenly in a cold, damp bunk below deck that smelled of straw and sour wine. Blinking, he sat up and looked around. A hand went to his chest, where he swore he could feel the warmth of her hands as though they were just there. Meria nickered to him restlessly from her stall further down the ship’s length. 

In his other hand was the tuft of white fur that Arya had taken from Nymeria before she left her in the cave. He ran it through his fingers listlessly as the fog in his brain cleared. Slowly he remembered why it smelled of sour wine, having drank himself to oblivion for the seventh day in a row. Once the pounding in his head had faded, he’d take it upon himself to clean up his bile before the captain yelled at him for yet another mess. 

For now, he needed fresh air. 

It had been a week on the ship, and the captain told him it’d be another two before they were at the first port. Sandor didn’t care where it was, as long as it was as far from Westeros as he could get. 

Unsteadily he stood, groaning as his joints cracked and his muscles tried to loosen. He made his way above deck with heavy feet, nodding to the few men who worked about the ship. With a sigh he leaned against the rail and looked out over the deep blue water. The seas had been in their favor so far but a not-so-distant part of him wished for a horrible storm to capsize the ship and end it all. 

He looked at the spot beside him at the railing. She was supposed to be there, at his side. But Arya had been gone before he had even reached her in the flaming chambers in Casterly Rock. Sandor looked back in the direction they had sailed from seeing nothing but emptiness and ocean. He took a deep breath and swallowed the lump in his throat. 

Behind him now were good memories, the ones he’d told her to make while she could. Little did he know she would have so little time to make them. For however long it took him to drink himself into a stupor and stumble into his own death, he would remember all the good memories they’d shared together in those few short months. 

Memories of how he felt when he’d stumbled upon her after the Long Night at the Crossroads; the feeling of blossoming hope that had burned in the pit of his stomach. 

Memories of her laugh in the towns along River Road. Her smile and the way she got on with everyone around her gave him hope they could survive anywhere the winds took them.

The way she chewed on her lip as she thought or as she cleaned her steel. He would watch her from across camp or from the bed on the few occasions they’d been lucky enough to find room and board, taking in her untamed beauty and questioning why she’d ever choose to be with someone like him. 

He thought of making love to her, both the first time and the many times after that: passionately, slowly, quickly, whatever was needed in that moment to tell her how he felt when both of them were so bad with words. The way she would take control but then melt at his touch.

Watching as she grieved over the loss of part of her soul in that damp cave near the swamps and how helpless he had felt, realizing that sometimes a simple embrace was what was needed. It’s what he needed right now.

The butterflies he’d felt when she’d finally said that she loved him, right before they ran into danger and her eventual demise. 

_Cunt gods and their fucking jokes._

Sandor gripped the ship’s rail tightly, feeling splinters in his hand, but at least that was something other than the grief and remorse he felt. He couldn’t tell if it was the spray of salt water from the sea or his own tears that were dampening his cheeks, but he didn’t care. None of it mattered anymore, he thought helplessly. The memory of her would stay with him until his final breath, and the guilt of not saving her from herself would haunt him into the next life.

He’d finally lost something important to him, something he loved. Now he understood her hesitance to open up, to love and hope. Sandor never wanted to love again; the only thing he wanted was to feel Arya’s warmth once more, to hear her voice and tell her that he loved her over and over again for eternity. 

Instead, he’d have to live with the gaping, painful black hole in his chest that held her memory until he took his final breath.

fin—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From the beginning this story was sad, about loss and life, hope and love. Sandor ended up learning just as many lessons from Arya as he'd taught. Writing a sad ending is never easy, but I hope the journey was enjoyable. This was the first fic I started, shortly after S7 wrapped up. It took four months to come to life, but I'm happy to say it's reached its end. Thank you so much for reading, giving kudos and bookmarking, it means a lot to me. <3


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